Image: Anonymous -Shot on 35mm film
When I was 12 years old my brother came home from his first attempt at university ; he was my idol my inspiration for life. Every interest he had I had to have, I latched onto him as he was falling , worshipping his every word. Watching the ink spread onto his old school paper, seeping into the veins of the yellowed paper begging to have inspiration like his. So I began to write , my grandmother's quill in my hand I sat with a torch balancing on my thighs under my blanket at night. Hiding myself from day one ,I never dared to write in-front of anyone ,I was always anonymous. Slipping pieces of writing into lockers ,I lived for the thrill I got from having a secret passion. Day by day I watched as my brother received praise for his writing from my mother , her disappointed eyes glancing over at me sitting at the other end of the table twisting my hair tie around my fingers, nervous as always.
My brother left again when I was 14, and I was left alone at home with no one to worship. Having followed his every step for years I slowly grew out of it, my papers were left blank and I forgot out about my ideas. It didn’t fulfill me anymore to write, there was no secret competition in my mind anymore . Without competition I lost touch to with the art, and pounded onward to find another thing , to win. I wanted a win, I wanted my name out there I was done being anonymous . I craved attention, I wanted to be seen , known for being good at something. So I ran myself to exhaustion, just to be recognized for being the best , which I knew from the very beginning wasn’t for me. I wasn’t ever going to be the best , because in my heart I knew a passion where there is a best ,wasn’t what I enjoyed. So in my typical manner I gave up , I dropped my shoes and sports leggings and got back under that blanket. My phone balancing on my thigh and laptop in front of me I began again and came back to myself.
In my hopeless search to be seen , praised and thrust on a throne ,I learned something important about myself and my love for words. It doesn't matter who wrote them , what matters is what you make of them. Now again I take my thrill in slipping verses of poems into people's bags , leaving lines of a story on a cafe table. And I hope if someone finds them they continue my story.
So in defense of anonymity , it's okay to be heard, not seen.