Sometimes I just cover my head and hide. Like maybe I’m just a chair with a sweater thrown over it, like maybe no one will notice me. I can hold my breath and sit very, very still. I know I can; I’ve pulled it off before. In doing this I can blissfully convince myself that I am not real, I am merely an inanimate object. I am free to serve a useful purpose, or otherwise collect dust. A chair is bound to simply be a chair. It is not expected to dance or perform a skit, although sometimes it is used in skits. Still, even in a skit or, say a child’s imagination, a chair needs only play the role of a chair, and let life play its role. In the same respect consider a picture, created by someone, hanging on the wall; it is what it is, nothing more nothing less. Sure others can interpret and decipher but ultimately no one will walk by the work and say “Picture, bark like a dog!! I demand you bark like a dog!” It was created for a purpose and it serves its purpose. It doesn’t dream of being a car, or a bus, or a cloud (though these things could be in it) it is most assuredly content to hang as a picture, or even be stored in a dark closet, no matter where, still a picture. It will speak its message and go where destiny places it—this makes its audience a mere chance.

So, say I was a picture. Say I was a painting of a women, sitting on the side of the road selling news papers. She is examining her hands, they are tired and rough, spent with ink stains and flakes of dry skin rubbed by paper. Her expression shows disappointment in what she sees, yet a certain determination to keep going (because she has no choice?). As this picture, first and foremost I would say to the world, “I am what I am. This is me. Take it or leave it.” I would not worry about altering my appearance to suite a certain passer by. If someone turned up their noise to say, “I think it’s drab, positively amateur. Who is that ugly woman?” I would not have to defend myself, yet I would not have to describe myself either. Too much description would be bound to cloud my message. I would simply stay unalterably me. No fuss, no worry, just me, unashamed. The only message I would speak was the one message I was created to speak. I would tell the story of the newspaper woman, of her triumph and struggle. Some might even explain I symbolize the degradation of the working class. That’s just fine; it is my job only to be me. I do not control other’s interpretations. And let’s say the painting hanging across from me is of a dog, held on its leash by its owner, whose face does not appear in the painting. Its job, although logistically the same: hang, look like a picture, things like that, would creatively and comprehensively be different than mine. We would never look at each other, turning green with envy. We would not fight and mistrust. Doesn’t it make since that we would accept the other one’s position, knowing full well that we each had jobs to do, that if we did our jobs the rest was out of our control?

The pictures, the furniture, the dishes stacked neatly in my cupboard, they do not wage war with each other; although their accountability be different, their basic co-existence remains the same. Only external forces beyond control alter their destiny, their lives.

This personification is only the rantings of a mad or maybe just a silly woman, for alas I am not a piece of wall art and this flesh, this body is where I find myself bound to. I just want to be. I want being to be enough. I don’t want to war, to battle. It’s not just the battlefield, a war so far away that I comment on during an evening meal at the supper table. It is this battle that exists when I walk down the street, when everything is trying to beat everything else. Who is better? What makes them better? Is it ever enough? I just want to do my job. I want to shine in my message. I don’t want to have to alter it for you or anyone else. And if there is war, let it be against evil, for something that matters in the end.

The woman in the painting was sighing at the sight of her hands, what years of toil had gotten her. She sat nearly defeated at the side of the road while fancy cars and important people drove right past her. Her life was a story unbeknownst to them. What was that gleam of determination, I still am not sure I know. Surely it was hope, hope that she could still leave it all behind, that at the end of the day there was a place where none of it mattered. This place, a haven, where she can sit down and play the piano maybe, singing with a strong voice, a woman with something to say, a message to share. Is that her purpose? Why can’t that be enough?

Yes, I will sit here a while longer, this coat pulled over my head, in this chair that holds so simple and sturdy. But, then I will get up and I will write and talk about it all. My story will be my purpose. I will make it be enough. It has to be enough. God damn it if its not.