Designated Doodler

I’m not sure, Possibly? In that reflection, Is it me? Moving parts make me who I am But on shaking ground I stand Three words have the power to define Who I am What makes me mine Do you know? Have I told you- Who I am? Should you go? Try to reach thorough- Separate the me  from the them? Looking at me,  What is it you see? Do you see the me I am- or the me to be? Reach into the dark, Do you Dare? to grasp what I wish wasn’t there Do you see what's been gone through Do you understand The battle fought for these ten years That has sought to undo This solid ground and strong command

Next to me on my desk is my open literature book, it’s open pages a stark reminder of how behind I am. “The Invisible Man” looks up at me from its stagnant position on my desk, my yellow highlighter still wedged in the binding. “What’s the point?” is the only question I can seem to ask myself. Just another week, just another night that ends like so many before it. All I can think about is the possibility of summer, of its hot hands wrapped around those three months away from this place. Those three months that can either be a disaster or a relief, time will tell I suppose. For now I’m just grateful that I’m nothing like the Invisible man, or at least what I know of him from the prologue, because that’s as far as I’ve gotten. This whole college thing can get so monotonous sometimes, but don’t get me wrong I love my school. Anyway…it’s these times when I reach for a sketchbook, or a fanfiction or my guitar. My poor guitar, well, my poor guitars. Sitting in their cases in my house 2

I was thirsty. That’s how the rest of my life started, by being thirsty. I was thirteen, and my family had just moved to Houston, we had been there for four months. Everything was going so well. Houston was a leap and a bound above the small refinery infested town we had just left in the Panhandle of TX; the middle of nowhere. I have such a clear memory of standing in my room, the walls a blinding white, the sun setting beneath the large empty field that lay behind our house. I picked up a roller and pushed it through the soft blue liquid that pooled in the plastic tray. We painted my room blue that night. Blue like the thirteen year old me dreamed of flying in. I wanted to be a pilot. But that’s another story. Needless to say, I was an interesting 13 year old and if you don’t believe me when I say that, just take into consideration that JAG was my favorite TV show. Anyway…so I was thirsty. My feet thumped down the stairs as I took them almost two at a time. The late afterno