Namaste

I wake up to the sun rays filtering through my bamboo screens.

I pause,

drenched in the warm honey glow of an almost summer morning.

I crawl, scramble in a generally awkward fashion,

from beneath my bubblegum neon pink soccer blanket

with knotted frayed twists on each end.

I stretch and roll out my sky blue yoga mat,

the foam soft beneath my feet,

Namaste.

I try to calm the tensions inside my center,

from the homework and the AP classes that I joined out of obligation,

a moral duty to my education,

because that is what one does. 

Not that art school seems to care, but remember I musn't be resentful.

Breathe.

But really I have no care for 1-proportion-z-tests or dissolved oxygen,

of Gross Domestic Product or whatever a caucus is.

What I really desire is to find charcoal in the cracks of my too dry skin,

pencil shavings in everything that I own,

and pen stains on the buds of my fingers.

I want to see my imagination come to life drawing by drawing,

crawling across stickynotes in a jerky fashion

because I am always learning, 

never perfect. 

I desire animation

to create worlds of copper gears and steamy smokestacks in a molten lamplit glow

or worlds of crags and fjords with wizards and magic.

My imagination is my limit, 

not my statistics calculations.

I love green tea and oxford shoes,

mermaids and my wacom tablet,

foods that no one can pronounce or even care to eat:

kombucha, matcha, siracha.

I love the tilted head of a person who sees my chia water.

I imagine they think they are little bugs, 

swimming for dear life in coconut scented water.

And let them wonder,

let them cringe at my foods,

my veganistic beliefs.

I am me,

I need no filter,

no frosted glass pane to cover my person. 

Let the world be what it is,

and let me be me.

Namaste