I spent the week inebriated by books. Books mandated by my college professors. I am constantly submerged in the articulations of others. I live more in their realities than my own. At times it seems it has made my life fiction. Images of war and paradise merge in the terrain of my mind...more blood-stained earth than abodes of loveliness. If these geniuses of the pen write of happiness, it is always tinged with the shadow of a fated tomorrow, or that of vanished yesterdays. As they write I imagine their creased brows, and the difficulty of confronting themselves reflected on the page. The brutality of honesty is always there. If they lie, they know that they are writing lies. Ink is the blood of conscience.
There are writers who frolic in the worlds they create. Writers of my past. They became gods in creating their own utopias. Their only agenda: to create a nest of dreams and prose (a word beautiful in iteself) like pillow-soft lullabies: the world of children. Those were the books I savored like hard candy.
Now I am almost victimized by words of knowledge. The world of the adult, of responsibility, of crimson rivers which the socially responsible wordsmith dips his pen into.