By Joel Pelegrina
I write for the sheer rush of it, to feel the winds of creative fulfilment swirl around me as I barrel down the twists and turns of my imagination at high speed. Inscribed in each sentence is a semblance of signature, an aftermarket autograph in the placement of each word array and customised metaphor.
The thrill of it all is in the ride itself, the music of the senses blaring, the proverbial top down on the carriage of my thought processes. I dream in high-beams and rearview mirrors, always looking to usher in an illuminated future while embracing a darkened past.
Do I swerve on occasion, crossing the solid center line of my capacity for self-indulgence, drifting onto the shoulder of my oblique whimsicality? Of course I do. But I always seem to make it back into my own lane before losing control and fishtailing into the ether.
Thankfully, I never go for a spin without wearing my seat belt…
While cruising, of course, every sentence is a moment hence, a moment passed. Savour each word accordingly, the connections between them, the disparity entrenched in their physicality.
It is a great paradox that the ones that mean the most are ultimately devoid of meaning, mere symbols arbitrarily entrusted with encoding the expressiveness of our signature souls. I grow fonder of them each second, regardless, simultaneously looking forward to my next combination abstraction while reflecting back on former iterations concrete.
To this end, I am an adjective ajar, a silhouette of secondary syntax, poised at the ready, always on the verge of enhancing the action within. With pen on blank paper, or blinking cursor on screen, I lay out the itinerary of my evolution, a wayward traveler logging the hours on innumerable flights of fancy.
The words are a portal, the verbiage a secret passageway to the realm of thoughts transcendent. As a proper noun who relishes impropriety, I am a talking contradiction, and I make no apologies for my inconsistencies.
It doesn’t take a visionary to see that there is much more beauty in the imperfection of our intuitive endeavours than could ever arise from the pristine pursuit of our societal obligations. There is no magical mani-cure for any condition that keeps our hands tied and our hopes bound by the constraints of our self-doubt.
Be the strange you wish to see in the world.
For more self-study, The Urban Howl recommends The Art of Work: A Proven Path to Discovering What You Were Meant to Do.