To be respected is to obtain mastery of the past, to be feared is to make ones domain of the future. To be both however, is to take command of the crossroads that between both past and future, the present.
Greatest form of flattery afforded to writers is censorship, is there no better acknowledgment of the power of a man’s words than the attempt to silence him?
Inspiration is the mere act of casting a light into the darkness of another mans soul to allowing him to witness what he already unknowingly possessed.
Every man who takes the breathe of life, has conflict written for him. A boy makes his conflict about power and the school yard his battlefield he will be a bully, yet mere meters away another man makes war against ignorance and the classroom his front line, he emerges the teacher. It is the great separator of men, not race, nor class but what he fights for and where he stages it.
A miner and a writer are no different in many respects, journeying into the deep dark depths of the earth, the other of his soul. Both searching to bring something back from darkness to light.
How the faithful forget themselves, what right do they have to possess the blindfold of ignorance in this life? Bowing to his holy books, he surrender his being to the knowledge within the calligraphy, those same eyes finding truth among scratches upon a page, yet not seeing the same within the humanity that surrounds him?
If our forefathers gave us something to proud of, it was so their sons shall hold their heads high not to make another man’s son lower his head in shame, in doing so they desecrate themselves and their forefathers.
To write is to achieve immortality, for words are unlike flesh are not ravaged by time, unchained from the bonds of time and location. In writing a man may speak across the centuries, across continents. He frees himself from this world, by ensuring that something is left behind.
A writer does not cry, not that his pain is any less or any different, merely the manner of expression. Where another’s pain is witnessed through the running of tears across a face, his tears are different, they are ink, nor do they run across faces, but rather upon pages.