The pads of my feet dance across the magical floor spread before me. Tiles dip and pop as they respond to the gentle pressure where the intangible becomes more real than the earth that calls itself a home and more immortal than the fire, wind, and seas that give the world its life. Yet, just moments before, my very essence flew on its own, inhabiting the multi-purposed appendage of my host, marking my ideals on the very palms that now sweat as I fly across my stage, leaping and striking with a grace unrivaled by the smoothest models and a determination unmatched by even the most starved of beasts. I ruthlessly emulate those that have gone before me as the fruits of my labor are preserved in the memories of minds and files that never decay.
The eloquence of my performance has taken years to master, yet perfection still hides its timid face behind many more horizons than I have time to count. One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three-four-five. The rhythm of the day marches behind my thoughts as the years flood back over my ever-growing focus.
From the day I first met the vessel I inhabit, I began leaving evidence of my work on everything I touched. The halls I roamed, homes I invaded, and playthings I abused in boundless amusement all tell tales of the great capers I engraved in their histories. As I grew with my host-body, I met a new way to interact with those like me. I found books and endless collections of papers that had been so carefully crafted by my predecessors. I wore my mark into their pages, absorbing splatter after splatter of ink long before my own black splotches joined those of past minds. They wrote for me, and I wrote my thanks in the only way I could: sacrificial oils and toils left in place of borrowed knowledge.
Eventually, the ignorance I had fled without success left my maturing mentality for younger, weaker targets. The strokes I had admired on every occasion finally followed me as I laid the binding down and reached for my own portal to expression. The white slab before me bent in the wind and tore at any agitation, but in it, I saw in it greater potential than I had been shown in any of its relatives held slave to covers and symmetrical stamping. With the help of my newfound friends, the stark plain began to take shape into a beautiful masterpiece that resembled a red tornado with the points and curves of my first letters jutting at odd angles just below it. My inaugural message made its way out at last and the brain I had called out to for years finally threw its doors open as the mouth it had bonded with spewed any secrets hidden behind the partially comprehensible work.
After my introduction to the world around me, many new hands began writing their own stories across mine as they guided me to take my own actions and develop patterns that every brain had learned to recognize. My skin became familiar with the touch of many new utensils as I was ambushed around every corner with a new pencil, pen, marker, crayon, brush, or knife that could spell anything I thought of. I tried writing from different points of view: recreating my patterns upside-down, using my host’s other hand, and learning his name so I could mark countless surfaces with Stephen, Michael, Naylor, or anything else off a list of numerous other labels for the creations I represented. The round edges I had been introduced to changed as well as my impatience beat the precision Stephen’s body was capable of and a new language of letters was introduced to my continually expanding vocabulary. The smooth, flowing cursive fit the page perfectly, but the looping garnishes that distinguished the style marred my efforts to stream from the hand to the page quickly, and I hastily ran from the script as soon as I could.
It was shortly before I escaped the festive trappings of the flowing print that I first wandered out on the dance floor and began to tango with mechanical print. The keyboards that I learned to play reacted to my every command and required no twirling of too-long sticks with too-short erasers when my body jumbled my messages. They knew exactly what I wanted to say, even when I didn’t have the words myself, and they remembered every thought that crossed my mind, no matter how long had passed since I dwelled on an idea. The computers that my newfound accomplice always dragged along found their use too, as they augmented the abilities of my stage and recorded my performance for large audiences to see.
Because I began to gain popularity as I moved past symbols on a page, and into messages dreamt up by imaginations that I helped spark, I began looking for even more outlets. I stumbled across an ancestral tradition from Stephen’s familial roots, and began once again to seek more knowledge. The French language met me where I was at, and we quickly became great friends, though I do still struggle at times to keep up with the pampered tongue’s demands.
I cannot deny my own demands, however, as I tax the memory I have obtained, searching for inspiration and meaning. For every change in the way I presented myself, there were many more changes in the way I was composed. I recorded my history and emotion for all to see if they looked hard enough, leaving a small piece of myself everywhere I went. I wrote phrases and essays to prove a point–to gain merit and make my voice stronger. And I crafted painting, sculpture, poem, and story, all to convey just what I’ve learned, from love to hate, from joy to sorrow, and from excitement to frustration.
Through it all, my ideal state serves me well, allowing me to observe, analyze, create, and portray as I live out the search for wisdom. I look forward each day to approaching the new and familiar faces, brains, works, and lives, putting myself out on the line to create something physical. But most of all, I anticipate the life my work takes on as it embeds itself in the deepest part of a being, undetected until it spurs inspiration out of once barren fields.