in the margins

there has been lots of talk about closed books lately. i am slow to speak. i have begun to believe that we're not all books. we're not all made of words. some of us are still frames. some are ocean breeze. some are unfinished paintings in attics, but art nonetheless.

i met a boy who kept his songs to himself for years, and i wondered how. he said he was happy with them and didn't feel the need to show anyone. he wasn't afraid of them though. he still wrote them and heard them in his own voice. and that was enough.

i once had an emotional urgency to see myself through the sensory experience of someone else--to pigeonhole what genre of art i belong to, which contradicts the idea of us as art itself. it's only when i've allowed myself to relinquish the need to know that there has been progress in the space between.

i am not a closed book, but i am something. and that is enough.