On Literature
The compelling nature of literature has guided me through a set of grand French doors into a room full of mirrors, which I have never left and never intend to. Because in this room, I was introduced to the many reflections of histories, sociologies, and psychologies that will take me a lifetime to explore—minds that have been carried and entrusted to the pages of leaves, pressed with words, preserving the essence of each voice that has been the true reasoning behind our enriched culture.
The many purities within literature, which I hold dear, have been judged by vocal proponents who understood the great joy of words creating action, drama, and tragedy. Though these proponents may forever be engraved, better silent, it is in silence that my world and the world between my hands allow me to expand my understanding of life through as many perspectives as I wish. In doing so, I gain extra life while remaining in the one I am bound to, when no more blood is on the leaves, and the end of a book has come. I still hold onto the rich context instilled in me by an author who extended their life so I could continue to see the past, present, and future within myself through an intimate journey of meditation.
Most people will go through life missing out on the valuable knowledge of our natural human ability to tell stories—from truths and lies to acting as victims to stumbling upon human faults to being stuck in a history where parliaments, presidents, and promises replaced kings. I will remain trapped in eternity. Literature is a product shaped from commentary on life's process, making itself the closest way to experience or grasp some sense of life by living through it. It chips away at the marble of our ancient past and newly discovered self dimensions, carving them into new visions, just as Michelangelo did with David.