I am a worshiper. I make loud noises and hit things with sticks and clash cymbals and dance and I praise Jesus as I do it. I make so many noises that I run out, and have to invent new ones. (And I do.)
My heart beat is in
my red callused hands beat on
my drum beats for the first Noise ever – The Holy Callithumpian. I make sound of images, feelings, and bright lights are high notes on my maestro’s song sheet.
At times my conductor’s cloak falls to the wayside and I take up a pen to think in shades of black on white; I am a creator. There are no others who bleed the worlds I bleed, the heroes I adore, or the songs I breathe like oxygen. My mind is a box, only outside of which color is necessary to liven that which I cannot mark with ink.
I am an an actor, and simultaneously: A dancer. A painter with blood on his hands. A burglar of pastries. I sing like a lark, and fly like one who’s feet have been lit afire. I might be psychotic, and so might I.
I’m a tapper of fingers on anything within my reach, drumming my life’s rhythm into a coffee cup or a table top. A cruncher of ice to give the neighbors earaches, and a slurper of teas and coffees. A wearer of jeans, old T’s, and tennis. A blogger. Duh.
So… who are you? Until the next…
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