As a student of literature I have learned many things. I have learned that literature and the act of writing is more than just telling a story, it is more than entertainment, it is more than words upon a page, it is the recording of the fluidity of human nature, human psychology, humanity in its entirety. I have learned that literature goes beyond race, nationality, gender, sexuality, because to create literature is to create a record of a human being and how that human being functions within the world they find themselves in. I have learned that to study literature is more than reading a work created by a human living in a realm since past, it is to study, capture, and further understand what it is to be human. I have learned that we are a strange, complicated, and tightly wound group of individuals who yearn and search for something, anything greater than ourselves, because as humans we are all missing something small and entirely significant within the labyrinth that is our inner selves and all we want in our short, fragile lives is to fill that missing space and that, my dear, is why literature exists; because not a single on of us has the answer and though some may come close, it will only fill the space until we find it riddled with holes, holes which will never be filled quickly enough for our insatiable need for fulfillment to be satisfied. Writers write not as a solution but as a path that maybe, someday might just lead to some sort of semblance to the solution for someone else’s empty spaces. Writers write to fill in the gaps of silence between spaces. Gaps that will never seem to be filled.
What gap am I attempting to fill with these words, scribbled frantically across a page when there are books to be read and assignments to be finished? I am trying to fill in the gaps that it seems we have, in our contemporary collapse of advancement, allowed to fall by the way side. Where is the beauty writers once strived for? Where are the perfect combinations of perfect syllables and perfect images that once left a reader perfectly breathless, unable to continue without first catching her breath, allowing the dizzying spin of life to sink in and calm enough before moving on along the page? Where are the final words that leave her clawing for air, questioning her existence and everything which surrounds it? Don’t just tell her a story to pass the time, tell her an epic tale which will lead her down the path to something more, something greater, something that will force her to search her soul for that missing piece. For numb is not an answer but the fingers you hide your eyes behind and just because you cannot see them does not mean that your gaps and your holes and your empty spaces are not still growing. And one of these days, while you are busy hiding, your empty spaces will swallow you whole and numb is all you will be capable of being because numb will be all that is left.
This is a call for betterment. Betterment of the literature we place into the hands of our daughters and our sons. We must learn not to settle for less than or for numb, but for beauty and fear, for something more, something that rattles us to the core and sets us back down upon that path to find pieces that will some how fill these spaces within. For even if we are unsuccessful, at least we tried and at least we have begun the path for another to continue. For I do not have the answers and neither do you, but maybe, if every one of us puts all of our terrified, fragile, collapsing cards out on the table we can piece together some sort of path, with all its twists and turns and traps and digressions, that just might, maybe, someday fill someone else’s spaces.