Some people can draw. They can draw what the rest of us imagine and bring it to life; they make it their own and create the spectacular.
Some people can sing. They can sing from the depths of their souls, making you feel things you never imagined. They can hit notes that do not seem humanly possible and make your eyes and ears cry with joy.
People can run, jump, skip, dance, fly, soar, ride, explore, discover…and then there’s me. I can write.
Now I’m not some recluse who stays shut in all day writing the memoirs of my stagnant life by a dimly lit lamp precariously perched upon the edge of my writing desk, envying those who revel in the freedom of being outside. No that’s not what I do. Everyday my head is bombarded with ideas: some good, some bad, some philosophical, some not exactly considered ‘normal‘, but they are ideas none the same. I like to write. I don’t love it, I don’t hate it. I’m pretty neutral about it (I’m kind of like the Switzerland of writing). I’ve learned to even enjoy some essay writing – depending on the topic or style (rhetorical essays being my new favorite thanks to Ms. Petuch). I like writing short stories. I hope to one day make one into a ‘long story’, but alas I am a procrastinator so we’ll see what happens.
Very rarely do people ever ask me to write about myself. Like most people, I’m never really sure or certain what to write about. I could impress you with wild tales of wonder and fancy that capture the mind and ensnare the senses. I could paint you a tale as vivid as a child’s imagination, yet just as sophisticated and tame as a gentlemanly game of chess. I could, but I won’t. Instead, I will just tell you this: I am seventeen years old, not entirely sure what I want to do with my life, and this is my blog.