Curriculum Vitae

i thought i was never anyone special. The opposite of what people thought of me. i’d hide in the shadows, but somehow, the light still shone on me. Every crack, every sliver, the sun’s rays would work it’s way through and illuminate.

Those cracks were me.
 

Shrouded in history, my past is lost to memory. Or
Repressed. Or
Just…
 

i was everyone’s piece of clay. Modeled to their liking. Their thumbs would Press
Smooth
Shape.

Out i would come, perfected.
 

But just for the moment.
 

In the kiln, i would pressurize, shrink, distort
 

Back then, books would be my undocumented journey. I was who I wanted to be.

I am the colors of the setting sky, following the sun into the moon, I have risen.
 

I am free to the pages that buckle under water, feather under ink and speak under pencil.
 

I am in place sight, but yet lost to your eyes.

My paintbrush has left streaks of paint in alley ways of Italy, on French coffee cups, on Indian fabric

In the chords of electric violins

In the Aurora Borealis

In the end credits at the cinema

Little clues, I’ve left, it takes more than sight to see. When you look with more than sight, you see what you’ve left behind

and what's ahead.