It sounds like theatrics. Like a man in a tweed hat and a tweed suit in the center of a dark stage telling us how to suspend our disbelief as he puffs away on a corncob pipe. It sounds like something that becomes an eighth grader’s away message, something that I would have clung to in my 15-year-old heartbreak when I doodled the lyrics of songs that I didn’t understand on my shoes. It sounds like a temper tantrum, like Tom Cruise on Oprah, like the girl whose Facebook status updates tell her life story.
But I’m sitting here, staring at the wall with a smirk on my face, and I want to bang cymbals. I want to learn how to play the trumpet so I can announce things off balconies to unsuspecting passersby. I want to stand two inches away from a stranger and tell them my life is changing. I want the side of a building as a canvas and three shopping carts of spray paint.
The words sitting stagnant on my tongue, the ones I am always careful not to let get mixed in with the clutter, deserve some theatrics. They deserve a quiet moment to explode, echoing back at me in new and interesting tones as someone else’s taste buds discovers their flavor. But I may have kept them inside just a little too long, and now I'm carbonated and not yet settled from a bumpy ride, ready to provide theatrics even if the moment's entirely inappropriate.