To Articulate Life: Blunt Belligerence or Subtle Guerilla Warfare

When I was 10 I had dreams of being a glamorous author who lived in a renovated house that had once been abandoned to time. It was going to be littered with the paraphernalia of my creative and brilliant life. Scarves from India were going to be draped on all of my furniture and my teapot would always be full of aromatic teas from far away places. I would spend my life talking with trees and stones. Wiggling out the stories that they had been witness to, while they smiled silent and amused at the bug who pestered them so pointedly from their observation of sun and moss.

Now that I'm 2o, that dream rolls over sleepily in the back of my mind with all the other lives I've lived through the filter of daydreams. My goal of glamorous author has been passed up for other things that had more endurance in the race, but the remains are still there. The fight to articulate my thoughts is still raging within me.

So I struggle with the world and try to assign words to all of these outlandish things that happen to solitary me. Sometimes I strive for a sentence like a farmer using a machete to get through blackberries. The rest of the time I tip-toe around it looking for cracks in the wall that I can squeeze though and grasp something tangible and worthwhile.

And so I struggle. My fist around a pencil instead of a gun. The War of the Words. I did just blatantly do that, yes. Yes, I did.