. . . Not So Clueless, Afterall.
There is an inherent curiosity rooted in ignorance. Curiosity in what we don’t know. Curiosity in what we can’t figure out. Curiosity in what we don’t understand. Can one really ever understand the nature of someone they’ve never met just through the words that make up the story of their life?
Words can be fabricated to appeal to the selected medium; molded to form into the opinion of the masses. But despite the fastidious temperament of our language, sometimes, words are the only avenue to quench the thirst of our inherent curiosity.
My life is a microcosm of words. Words rooted in the whimsical nature of childhood inexperience; the hesitancy of adolescence and the uncertainty of adulthood. There isn’t one event in my life that turned out as planned, expected or desired. The only surety in my life is the comfort of my words to satiate my ever growing curiosity.
There’s no mystery surrounding me; no profound secret that makes up my psyche. I was the girl submerged in a book; the teenager dissecting the pages of the New York Times and the young woman struggling through University College so the School of Journalism would see her worth.
I’ve enjoyed the trials of growing up and the independence of trying to find my niche in a world full of ambiguity and doubt, but ripe with potential. Words have given me a voice when my lips have refused to come to my defense.
Words are my window of opportunity when every door has been wielded shut by circumstances within and out of my control. Words are my entrance into a race that will surely encompass me without the clarity of guidance and the luxury of security.
My words have given me the opportunity to sate the penumbra of my curiosity in the hustle of black words spread across the surface of a white global medium. It has allowed my curious nature to soar in an industry that thrives on the inherent ignorance of my being.
My words have saved me, revitalized me, protected me and educated me. But, sometimes, my words fail me when they are needed to make an impression of myself on those things which are not familiar to me.
So beyond the words serving as a declaration to my education and experience, there are the words that tell the story of who I am, not what I’ve become.
I’m perfect, really; almost in every sense of the word. I’m only funny when I’m not trying to be. I’m increasingly nonchalant about the most important issues and my sense of humor is borderline questionable. I’m ridiculously shy, but surround myself with people, both privately and professionally, who have no idea that my calculating wisdom and blunt declarations serve as a blanket of repression to my introverted nature.
I may very well have commitment issues, but am well aware that I am positively addictive to those I intimately associate myself with. My smile is ever-changing, but uniquely associated with life’s varying moods. It never leaves, just modifies itself to accommodate the world around me.
My transparency is clouded by my supposed enigmatic nature. I’m a contradiction in and of myself. I’m perfect; absolutely fabulous, if you will. So, watch me captivate you. I’d hate to surprise you.
