First, I am a thinker.
The words are like half-born children,
Kind of existing but not quite.
The ghosts of things that could be-
Images swirling and forming and reforming again
like smoke-clouds
until the first words are finalized;
solid like a kiln-fired statuette.
And then I sit and I… write.

Then, I am a creator.
I sit, and I wrap the weft across the loom.
I have a thousand colors,
but I’m not sure what I’ll pick.
Tentatively, I take one color-
and then another-
and soon I have a warp,
and a form that almost looks like fabric.
Not quite there, yet, but getting to be.
The shuttle shoots back and forth
with a sort of rapidity
that only comes with the joy
of new-sprung ideas.

Then, I am a dreamer.
I sit down and I think-
daydream-
wonder of all the things that could be,
every new-born concept
branching out from a well-established root.
They are only phantasms,
a faint image, a non-event
only until it gets onto the page.

And then I am a follower,
A fan of a new and unborn idea
that’s only half mine.
I sit down to tell myself a new and exciting story,
with the enthusiasm of a child
looking at the newest chapter of their new favorite book.

And then I am camera-man and director,
watching the action unfold
fingers deftly turning the camera
the film already playing in my head
I see everything,
and I am there.

Then I am part of the story.
I laugh at their ridiculous antics,
I grimace at their scrapes and cuts,
and I cry when they are grieving.
I am one of them,
and they are like my children.

Then I sit back.
I tell myself the whole tale,
over and over again.
I go back and read the beginning.
There is an immediate shell-shock,
like some important part of my life
is over.
And then I smile
because maybe
someone else can feel my joy.

But I’m not done yet.

Then it’s like I’m talking to an old friend,
asking new questions,
relearning old things I thought I knew.
I watch the film play over and over,
look over the fibres of my beautiful web,
blow up with enthusiasm in private
(every so often).
I take the fine-tipped needle
and delicately perfect
the eyes of my own ‘David’.

And then it’s like letting go of my children-
I watch my best friends walk out of the door
to tell their stories to the world.
I sit back, and I reflect.
(There is probably coffee and ice-cream).

And then I sit, and I am myself.
I am a thinker and a day-dreamer,
A creator and a friend-
And I am only me-
a child,
playing with her favorite toys-
a keyboard and an unfinished story.