This weekend I'm staying at a hotel with my fellow Bison from Howard University. We're all here working on graduate school essays and what not. I'm taking it easy, enjoying the wonderfully fluffy pillows, the largeness of the hotel beds. I could get use to this. I wonder do writers get to live like this?
Penning these essays feel a lot like looking into a puddle after a rainstorm. You want to see your reflection but instead you get a hint of yourself along with oily watercolors and part of a rainbow. When I think of the future, I revisit the reflection in the puddle, how it never quite looks like what you imagine it to look like.
The writer's fate is so unclear. Perhaps, this is why so many people don't understand us. We don't have time to look to the future--because we're still writing it.
