My Name and What I Want to do With it

Sometimes I feel like I'm crazy. It's not the being part that gets me, it's the feeling part.
Does that make sense?

It probably only would if you were crazy too.

I want this to work. I want this so badly.
I love to write, did you know that? Did you know that about me? I love it.

I still remember how proud I was when I first learned to write my own name. I was sitting on this green tacky thing of a couch, pencil and paper in my hand. The page was covered with my scribbles. I think my mom must have been cooking or preparing something in the kitchen. I yelled out to her for each letter, with long drawn out silences in between, while I attempted to write it down. I would get really quiet, really focused. I would write each letter out, again and again until I was satisfied with the way it looked. I finally got them where I wanted them; each letter was in its place and looked as nice as I could make it. I've written my name countless times since, but there has never again been that amount of emotion or pride when I see it on a piece of paper.
I want to write more than my name, now. I want to write art, and put my name on it.
For people to know it's mine.
For people to know me.

I want to help people.
          To better understand others, and for others to better understand me.
          To speak for those that can't speak for themselves, for any reason.
                                                                  For those who can speak, but have yet to.
          To build bridges. Maybe burn some too.

I want community.
         A conversation, and dialogue.

I don't want people to think I'm making this up. Any of it.
To stop reading, thinking, questioning, discussing.

Or for me to give up on this, and ultimately myself.

Is that too much to ask? From my name? And from this?
As my French professor loves to remind me: On va voir!