Known

Cave drawings of horses wrangled, phone numbers on bathroom stalls, overshares on social media, just to be known. For some its a tincture of fame, for others a remembrance before the funeral, a test of love and devotion.

I want to be known. I want for my words to braid themselves in the minds of others, loose but secure. Easy to take out but why would you? Words that melt in my mouth before I can speak them, so I write them down instead. So tasty, that when I’m hungry, they’re hard to savor.

How hungry I have been. Cloudy thoughts spill out of my mind, into my stomach. A false fullness, a lost appetite where a starving person sits. To write is my favorite thing, but somehow it tastes different. I gulp the words I so dearly wish to share. Survival instincts set in and suddenly I am hoarding my thoughts. Who would enjoy these anyway? They are homemade, but somehow it doesn’t sound appealing when I put it in such a way.

In this day and age it seems like our choice to express and to be known is less of a choice and more of a necessity. Maybe that is how early people felt, too. I’ve got to let others know how it is, so they can understand; they’ll be in awe or they’ll be in terror, but at least I’ll have done my part. The third option is, of course, that they don’t care and never will.

To grow in the open, like trees in the desert, must be an awfully hard thing to do. The wind whips, the sand grates, and people stare with dry eyes.