There is an inherent curiosity rooted in ignorance. Curiosity in what we don’t know. Curiosity in what we can’t figure out. Curiosity in what we don’t understand.
Can one really ever understand the nature of someone they’ve never met just through the words that make up the story of their life?
Words can be fabricated to appeal to the selected medium and molded to conform to the opinion of the masses. Still, sometimes words are the only avenue to quench the thirst of our inherent curiosity.
My life is a microcosm of words. Words rooted in the whimsical nature of childhood inexperience; the hesitancy of adolescence and the uncertainty of adulthood.
There isn’t a single event in my life that turned out as planned, expected or desired. The only surety I hold is the comfort of my words to satiate my ever growing curiosity.
There’s no mystery surrounding me; no profound secret that makes up my psyche. I was the girl always submerged in a book; the teenager dissecting the pages of the New York Times and the young woman barreling through University College so the School of Journalism would see her worth.
I’ve enjoyed the trials of growing up and the independence of trying to find my niche in a world full of ambiguity and doubt, but ripe with potential.
Words have given me a voice when my lips have refused to come to my defense. Words are my window of opportunity when every door has been wielded shut by circumstances within and out of my control.
Words are my entrance into a race that will surely encompass me without the clarity of guidance and the luxury of security.
My words have navigated the deep-seated pain of reality in the hustle of black words spread across the surface of a white global medium.
My words have saved me, revitalized me, protected me and educated me.
Sometimes, words are all I have.