“You write in order to change the world, knowing perfectly well that you probably can’t, but also knowing that literature is indispensable to the world.” ~ James Baldwin

Ever since I was a child I was a lover of books. My school libraries became my sanctuary of safety and the words squished between the pages became my lullaby. I remember every library like I entered them only yesterday. But like many who hate to be faced with the truths printed in ink, those words became forbidden to me unless they were written in scripture. Strange how words reflected with ones ideas becomes the poison that kills polite society.

They always told me not to think…
There is no reason to think… especially in your condition.
Don’t ask me who is ‘they’… They will never tell me.

Some use to say in town gossip that books caused the women to misbehave and the men flowery… was that supposed to be a curse?

I held on to the stories of my childhood that cherished the hidden lessons that we as adults often forget. Maybe one day we get so old there isn’t a point in remembering them anymore until you dying and suddenly it matters because your kids don’t talk to you anymore. And you’re alone… not all of us are able to hold on to the whimsy of youth but rather embrace the confidence that age brings you. Funny to think As a child I hoped I’d never get that old.

Regardless, we are all faced with a cross roads much like the yellow woods of Robert Frost. You know… the poem you read in grade school that called for the reflection of familiarity versus discovery. The two paths… one many took faced with the lushness of the pass only few dared to face. Both came with a cost but only one lead to the truth… or at least what I would like to think is the truth.

As a writer I think about the words that were once written with longing for someone to read them, words that we have been etched in the inside of our all our bones but only some could translate them. And now is our time to write them.

There has never been a time when the words painted by the masters of stories weren’t at odds with the ones who were scared of truth. Arts barest form is that of the human soul, raw and on display. Our very nature requires the murder of ego, the artist is only the smoking gun. But never be fooled by the jokers guised as bleeding hearts, they are wolves who have stolen sheep’s clothing.

Self care is mandatory.
Creation is resistance.

If you have been waiting for permission… this is it.

XOXO,

Shay

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