Whenever I see people writing, it makes me want to write more, write better; it makes me want to read more and learn how I can be better. Whenever I read, the words in print come to life and plant a seed of inspiration in this interior soil I’ve been toiling away to become fertile. And it is precisely this network of words in books or newspapers, online journals and academic readings, blogs and social networking sites, even the dialogues in films and plays, which thwart the claustrophobia induced by an often isolated, everyone-for-himself world. As my eyes scan, and as my ears hear, and as my lips wrap themselves around the language, I begin to yearn for a life of the mind that runs parallel to the life of the heart. I dream that both lives would one day cross, and that singular point would lead me to a profound joy.
The words I read and hear; the words I feel and incorporate into my own body of expression, offer comfort and safety, company and security. Most often the words are simple. But they never fail to be extensions of the human spirit. The words do not rely on the glory of language’s redemptive prowess – as man approaching the divine through this individual yet universal examination – rather on its ability to restrict to inches our earthly sentiments. How a hundred pages could carry the weight of our existence; how a few verses of poetry can contain the near unspeakable; how a word can so brilliantly define and transform what cannot be sensed, and with equal force, alter that things which can be.
This liberation through limitation inspires me. So when it is hard to stay on an even keel, that is when I read and write, and read and write more; that is when I return to the life of letters to feel. And it gives me hope when I pass on, tragically, comically and metaphysically, the body of work I leave will transcend this elbow room, becoming in itself, a liberation through limitation.