I was once asked ‘Do you know what do with your life’?

I want to sit cross-legged in front of you. You – taped upside down across the wall like an outrageous paint stain flicked in a moment of rambunctious, adolescent rage. I want to sit in front of you and tell you about myself.
I am an idea.
I am not a person or a girl or the result of a shadow walking across the light. I am not your stereo or your type. I am not the morsel of disliked food you chomped at lunch and pooped at dawn. I am not another specimen of a species that you bracket in an equation of your social, economic, political, tiny, squishy spitballing brain that is forced to calculate and derive me into a consequence for lack of options.
I am the ring from a telephone – unknown till you answer me. I am the wet ink pigment from a pen that is piling up on the paper as the mind struggles to catch one of the zillion ideas that whiz past inside a head in a moment of realization. I lick words like ‘cynosure’, ‘ephemeral’, ‘languor’, ‘scintilla’ before I gulp them whole. I become the cat as I see one. I spin with the ceiling fan above me. I sing with the pigeons outside my window. I howl with the cooker whistle. I grow a trunk. I stack myself without a title with the dusty books. I rumble with my stomach. I am a potato.
I want to do and be different things every hour of my life. I am an idea and I want to keep changing. Just shut up and let me be before I grow you a tail and hang you in a kindergarten class on the first day of school.

‘Not yet.’ I replied.