During the murky early mornings I am a man of very few words. My thoughts are focused on my dreams which I miss intensely the instant I wake. My eyes are towards the ceiling, and my back lays flat on the cushion of my nice soft warm bed. The darkness is a clown which fools with my mind. He bends the fine line between what’s real and what’s only fantasy. Which is why I lay silent trying to figure out the clear difference.
“WILL!” That’s my father yelling from downstairs. I’m still in my dream phase thinking about women and riches. I flop over sideways facing my bedroom door and try to respond to him with a happy hearty “Good morning,” but before I can, my true feelings break loose, and I respond by saying a depressing, miserable, “MmmmWha?”
“Oh.” He says surprisingly. There is a short pause, then he continues, “I think it’s time you start thinking about getting up.”
“Mnnn Kay— one minute.” I fall out of bed and quickly get dressed, walk my dog, eat breakfast, brush my teeth, pack my bag, and then I go to school. It all feels like one movement.
In the classroom I am a mouse, even though I’m totally there, I’m quiet and I speak with my eyes. Sometimes words are as meaningless as a Thrush who cannot sing. However, sometimes, if the right words are used by the right person, they can save a life. In the end, some words are beautiful works of art, like the pieces that are admired in museums and some words are stupid and are only meant to be used for The Mindless Small Talk of everyday life.
“Sup Will.” Someone says.
“Sup man.” I say plainly, and with a sarcastic crescent-shaped smile glued on my face, I shake their hand. That to me is as low as it gets, the words I use for small talk have no personality or charisma. They’re boring and dimwitted, and there is no art or true beauty to them. There’s just that sort of, “I say this, you say this feeling”, you get when your talking to someone you don’t know and or care about. I feel like a social robot, until I get to lunch.
At lunch, with my friends, I am Out Going, I am Free Spirited, and I am Happy— which is not a word I use often. Do I speak out art? I don’t know, but its eccentric and natural and my words mirror my personality— and that’s all that matters.
“Will.” Tom says to me.
“Tom.” I reply.
“Sawyer.” I joke.
Tom throws a fake punch at my face. And I pretend to get hit in the eye, and start to grow fake tears while crying out a fake sob.
Then someone says, “Yo. Guys we should definitely go bowling.”
“I know, we really should.”
“Whites versus Asians again?”
“Hell yah bitch.”
“Were gonna kick your asses back to Viet-Nam.”
“Oh my god. You guys are so messed up.”
“You’re the one who can’t say one sentence without saying the word fuck.”
“He looks like Hitler.”
“Lamborghini Muci Damn deez chicks are thirsty...”
“Shut the hell up.”
“Wait hold on I like that.”
“You see me rollin...”
“Oh my god. Will. Play that country music you like.”
“Its not country. Its folk man. Bob Dylan. See country is like yeee-haaawww grab your partner round ‘n’ round. Folk is expressive and sad like blowin’ in the wind and stuff. I like folk a lot better cause it’s like real poetry made into song.” There is a brief moment of silence. “Plus its fun to play on my guitar.”
The conversations I have with my friends are valuable because they are so natural. The words from my mind, spill out of my lips, like the water that runs out my faucet. It’s a time where my words reveal the most of myself and the mouse in me becomes a lion. I am my own jungle. I roar instead of squeak. I swear instead of shake and I am not alone.
I’m alone on my way home, I’m a shadow, and although I am happy, I am not me. As I walk through familiar streets and smell the familiar smells and hear the familiar sounds, my shadow grows. By the time I get to my door— no, by the time I get to my street, I grow my flesh and bones. I walk into my house, fully skinned and fully clothed. What you see of me is enough for you to know— I’m there. Dragging along my book bag, I parade up the stairs, and walk into the living room. There sitting on the couch is my mother. I am not a lion but I am also not a mouse. At this point, I don’t know what I am. However, I know what I follow. I follow a behavior and manner owned and invented by the house I live in and the roof I live under. I ask questions, instead of answering. I don’t declare or claim anything. I am innocent and ignorant.
“Sup mom.” I said. “What’s for dinner?” I asked.
“Well. Why don’t you look on the counter and find out for yourself.”
“Oh yah.” I turn around and...
“But wait, tell me about your day.” Demands my mother.
I answer her in a few words more than one. I speak, but like the robot I am before lunch, I do not tell. I follow the rules and act as I am supposed to. The world inside the tower which I live in revolves around a small round table. Together we call it the dinning room. We sit and eat and speak and drink.
“I got a eighty five on my spanish test.”
“Thats good.” My mother admitted. “How are you doing on all your other subjects?”
“Pretty good.” I reply.
“Yah, you keeping up on all your assignments?”
“Yes.” I say emotionless and calmly. I finish up my meal and head up to my room.
All through the night, until early in the morning, I’m alone in my room. Once again I am speaking, but not through my eyes or mouth, but within the inner roots of my body. I speak with my heart, soul and mind. These words, they are different than the ones that I say out loud and to me and me only— they are truly beautiful, a masterpiece made out of letters and vowels. Art. These words come from a big bright cabinet located in my dark dreary mind. These words, which I ponder all day keep me occupied and I become excited. These words have personality, style and grace. My heart is finally speaking and my soul is finally free from the tower I am forced to live in. There is no better way to use these words, so why use them at all. Words that are said out loud aren't special, they are wasted, wasted on something that is soon to be nothing. Nothing more than a memory, not worth being memorized.
The words that are meant to be memorized have a true meaning that shows who you really are. Not as a human, but as a individual. Its poetry, art, truly beautiful, Bob Dylan and blowin’ in the wind, eccentric, natural, or whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t really matter, as long they reveal your true self.
“It is the most vivid and crucial key to identify. It reveals the private identity, and connects one with, or divorces one from, the larger, public, or communal identity.” James Baldwin typed that.
“My words depend on my personality, my personality depends on my attitude, my attitude depends on who’s at the door. For I speak out my own creation and my creation is nothing more.” I typed that.