Names. We are born without names. At the moment of our first breath, all we are is noise and moisture. We are silent travellers uttering our desires, needs and wants with our actions, until of course, we have a name. Once that happens we learn to have a signature. We learn to make a mark. Identity in cursive script.
Now what?
Sign up for something.
Scratch your itch on the paper they thrust at you. Get a T-shirt. Here's my card. Free samples. A limited time offer in exchange for your sound reason. Write your rights in a single stroke of the double-edged Bic.
When I learned to scrawl my monicker, AKA, my nom de plume. The quills of my bristling attitude became the feathers of my existence. I was continually dipping into the inkwell of my future. This left me with one need and one need only.
Show the world I knew who I was.
Sign your work. Sign language. Sign of the times. Sign, sign everywhere a sign. Mortgage, loan, proof, self, curses from your cursive.
With handwriting so bad, you could be a doctor. The world wanting to hear your heart. An autograph slowly carved on the memory of another. Almost the same as your sister, mother, father, brother; a cousin in literacy and formality. Have a seat, we'll be with you in a moment.
My friend asked me what I signed up for.
I don't know.
Dabuoy
