It came in a rush that you couldn’t stop.

An outpouring from every fibre, leeching out of your skin.

An out-poring.

A creative rainbow burst of words and sounds and shapes and rhythms…

…and they called you a genius. And you shrugged.

Is a genius just someone who comes to the world unfiltered, raw, unaltered, and pure ?

…and they called you a virtuoso. And you shrugged.

Is it virtuosity to breathe ? It came as naturally – as easily – as breath.

…and you stopped calling yourself anything at all. And I guess you shrugged.

Why wear a name when you’re in the business of transcendence. Right ?

When you live in the rush that you can’t stop.

When it’s pouring and pouring and pouring from every pore.

When there is no gap between the art and the life and the life and the art.

When you’re bursting with words and sounds and shapes and rhythms.

They’ll remember your name. Whatever it wasn’t. Whatever it was.