Solace. From clenched fists to a raging mind, my writing has become me and I have become my writing.
I was just a kid without a means of expression. At an early age fighting was the only way that I could exhaust my aggression and imagination. Boston, the city that raised me, had instilled a survivors mentality. I would bury myself in no-win situations, knowing that there would only be one means of escape. Free falling down a black hole into an abyss filled with dead ends. Impenetrable even by light, any promise that may have been was lost.
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This essay is not being written from the bottom. No longer surrounded by subconscious hindrances, words have penetrated my depleted spirit. They rescued me.
Epiphanies come without warning– they invade, making everything you may think you know about yourself crumble. They act as glimpses of realization into what could be. They do not however tell you what to do.
Writing had always been a burden, something that needed to be finished as quickly as it was started. Sentences formed without hesitation, spilling over paper like a dextrousless youth pouring milk into a cereal bowl. Eventually, it was that very writing that gave meaning to my ramblings. It truly only takes a spark to ignite and brighten a new beginning.
The first Thursday of sophomore year came accompanied by my first writing course. Assignment: write about a confusing experience. Churning through suppressed memories, my puzzle of thoughts began to piece together, forcing my mind to vomit across computer keys, ideas came out as chunks of self coherence. I was under the impression that this piece was gospel. Tangible angst had molded around my body, protecting me from critics–my Professor came with a sledge hammer, shattering my pompous false sense of literary entitlement. One word rose above all others in the critique, “potential”.
What I have needed for my life’s entirety was something to work towards. With no good or bad, nor right or wrong–writing is an ever evolving craft that rewards time spent and immersion. Transient victory comes with solidarity between idea and product. I am now to the point where the words this is good or I like this are jabs and crosses to my literary exertion. Writing has offered me a congruence of spectrums, enabling violent tendencies to become romance, and carnal desires to divulge past superficialities toward true understanding.
It is through writing that my perception of the world has transformed into a playground, allowing playful thoughts to jump from one obstacle to another.
Studying, alongside passionate peers and under coniferous Professors, would provide mind blowing radiance inevitably leading to beautiful metamorphosis. The rigorousness of the program will allow for a further realization of just how far I still need to go to be called a Writer.
I am but a sapling, still closely rooted to my beginnings, yet staring up at giant brilliances. Admiring teachers and writers like Maya Angelou, Pablo Neruda, Jack Kerouac, and David Sedaris– yearning for knowledge droplets to fall and promote my own growth.
David Gideon Rich 