I have never been good at describing who I am. It's ironic, I suppose, being as I'm a writer but there you have it. There are the obvious things about me that most people know. I'm 28 years old, I live in Kentucky, and words are kind of my thing. That being said, the only thing I hate worse than writing about myself is a generic introduction. So instead I give you this, as it gives a little glimpse at who I am without be struggling to write out your typical 'this is me and this is what I do and this is cut and dry and boring' little tidbit:
I feel like it should be so easy to put into words who I am, what I am, though it is anything but. I am a puzzle; a thousand pieces put together to make a slightly blurry picture. These pieces are little things that are taken from the people I have met, the pain I have endured, and the places I have been. I am a collection of experiences and sensations, and it is the most wonderful feeling.
I am a breeze that whispers through the afternoon on a southern day that is too hot and too humid, stirring the stale air just enough to bring a brief iota of comfort. I am a glass surfaced pond, just beyond a rusted barbed wire fence that is leaning and in danger of falling. I am a small white house with a concrete porch, tiny baby feet and puppy paw prints left behind when it was once just fresh cement. I am ancient crab apple trees with limbs that nearly touch the ground, heavy with fruit that needs picking. I am a pitcher of sun tea with slices of lemon and just enough sugar, sweating on a scarred old kitchen table. I am the place that I have called my home for twenty-eight years.
I am hundreds of miles of pavement beneath fervently turning wheels, traveling through the night with the radio blaring. I am many deep conversations once spoken between the doors of a champagne colored foreign made car. I am sky scrapers and street sweepers and stumbling laughter at two in the morning. I am a sofa on the second floor of a bar, drink in hand and nowhere else to be besides in the moment. I am a train climbing east into Philadelphia, busy and hurried and always just a little bit late.
I am ink stained fingers and late nights without sleep. I am thousands, millions, of words scrawled on countless numbers of pages. I am poetry and prose, both good and bad. I am stress and confusion. I am a finally finished novel, slowly being edited and painfully picked apart. I am every single writer I have ever admired, but can never possibly be.
I am my mother's disposition and my father's temper. I am a combined love of music from the sounds I grew up with. I am the laughter when there is nothing to laugh about, and the first to always cry. I am a best friend and a sister and a heart that will never heal. I am late nights with Skinny Love on repeat in a semi dark basement room listening to hearts beating. I am a student who is never going to be done learning, even when school has ended. I am a disappointment and a blessing.
I am so many things that I could never write them down. I am a different person each time I meet someone new. To introduce myself is complicated, so I will simply say this:
Hello. Welcome to the puzzle.
