So, here’s what I’ve been thinking, as I stare at an essay written in the 40’s by James Baldwin. His words titled ‘Notes of a Native Son’ comfortably rest next to my half torn notepad, which smells of hand rolled cigarettes from being left on the coffee (etc) table for too long.
I am thinking about words and their power, especially when put on paper. I use the same 26 letters in the English alphabet that Baldwin, Kundera and Kerouac used. Who am I to use their tools? What makes my sentence construction and phrasing worth reading? Rather than feeling intimidated, I am in a whirlwind of curiosity to find out. Their stories live on. I have found life in them. Death has always left me in a kind of paralytic fright – how it puts me at ease to find infinity in literature.