i am not a chicken

As an introduction of sorts, I suppose this post could make or break any of the words written below. It could reveal the inspirations of my musings (although the sidebar pictures do a great job of that), or it could scare people away. But really, I don't care. People will read what they will read - whether they choose to read my words or not is up to them. And I will write what I will write. Poetry, musings, observations, paint pictures... in some little way, they are all a part of me, threads of sorts that lead into the tangled knot of thoughts that I try to sort out through the words I throw onto the page. It's a strange art, that thing called writing, and sometimes I wonder why I feel so compelled to play with words or share my wordgames with other people. It frightens me to think of what opinions others may develop about me as a result of what they read. Maybe I'm just paranoid, but at times I feel that just one out-of-place word could unravel my entire post, destroying the facade of my writer persona, exposing whatever naked remnant of the real me is left underneath. It is a terrifying thought indeed, and yet, it is a challenge worth taking in order to sort out ideas and musings where others can see and comment and improve.

To establish my new position as a blogger (i.e. finally opening up this blog for more than a dozen eyes to see), I am going to swallow my fear. Though I may imagine a fox in the chicken coop, a wily fiend looking to corner me between wire and dust and sky, I will not let my fear trap me into hoarding my words to myself. I may be a monkey, writing about the randomness of trees or bananas or self-grooming, but I am not a chicken. Like a monkey, I may be trapped in a zoo or in the darkness of the jungle, but the confines of these prisons of expressions are nothing compared to the cooping captivity of the barnyard where the fearful thought of foxes and coyotes causes words to hide in nest's stifling safety. The jungle is a frightening place, and yet, the idea of a greater adventure if tantalizing to me.

I may be a monkey, but I am not a chicken. Cut me deep, chop me up, burn me black, or fry me. But whatever you do, try at least a taste of monkeysoup. It is written for the soul, however monkeying it may be. Drink it up, savor it in, throw it away if you will.

At least, I am no longer a chicken.