When I was a child
my sister was jealous
of my ability to color
inside the lines.
It was the only arena
in which my capacity
outranked her own.
My compulsive attention to detail started there.
The irony of this is not lost on me.
My life has been lived
unabashedly,
unapologetically
unconcerned with
staying inside of lines.
I have been bound behind them,
constrained by myself
or others,
but I can never manage to stay for very long.
My wanderlust has launched me
into galaxies,
or great escapes,
or entirely different realms.
Those that even I
had never dared dream.
I have been like an angry mass
of protesters
who cannot be contained.
Not by tear gas,
or fire hoses,
or any aggressive show of force.
Or a child
who still finds herself
scribbling in crayon
on the walls,
stick figures
and illustrations of stories
that only I can understand.
The wildfire
raging behind my eyes
has always been
entirely too ferocious,
and has always spread
entirely too quickly
to ever be extinguished.
And I have found that life,
real life,
can only be experienced
outside of these lines
that are drawn for us,
or those we sometimes manage
to draw for ourselves.
There dwells the buttery richness
hidden in flaky layers
of a fresh croissant,
drizzled in the decedance
of chocolate or honey.
There dwells the freedom
we seek within our slavery,
where the weight of our chains disappears,
and we can finally
run, unfettered.
No, I was not born
to be bridled,
or color inside the lines.
This earth needs me
writing rampantly,
so that I may share my tales
of life untamed.
The beauty of the risk
in living unrestrained.
In the image of God,
with an inability to be fathomed
or forgotten.
Endlessly celestial and
too colossal for a cubicle,
but simultaneously
exquisitely ethereal.
Both yearning for the touch of others
and yet,
too delicate and vast to be held.
