When literature becomes life
Literature is one of the most beautiful gifts that I received as a human being. Since I was six, I knew that words define me; they're pieces of my genetic and emotional structure. Words never get old, books never betray, characters never leave the space they're living in. I loved that permanence, that constant present that always remains loyal to your age, to the feelings you had when first reading a book.
As an author, I approached literature with a much more mature, yet rebellious attitude. I believe that writing needs to be innovative, shiny, and uncommon. You need to surprise your readers with each paragraph, emotion, gesture. Only an authentic voice can really impact someone's life and the way that person will see the world after reading a poem or a novel. You become fully responsible for the reader's journey through the creations of your mind. Once you accept literature as being a substantial part of you, you'll never be able to walk away from the stories, metaphors, and hunting ideas that follow you as a writer. It becomes part of your existence.
One of the first memories I recall as a child is connected to poetry. My second grade teacher gave us an assignment to complete in class. We were supposed to write a short poem about one of the stories that we recently read. When my turn came to speak, I was a little bit nervous, because the poem I wrote was very different from what my colleagues shared before. However, the teacher convinced me to speak, and I did continue. When I stopped reading, she had a strange expression on her face. She told me that some lines from my writing belonged to a literary masterpiece written by one of the most brilliant writers of our country. Also, she pointed out that only high school seniors are studying it, so there was no way that I could have ever read it. She seemed amazed and smiled back to me.
Ten years after, as a senior, I started reading the poem. It was truly amazing: the structure, the rhymes, the author's personal view. When getting to the end, I recognized those three lines, and a tear came streaming down my face. It was my first time reading it, and I had no logical explanation for what happened long time ago, in elementary school. Maybe it was the unconscious, the early morning hour, a child's imagination...or maybe it was a sign that literature has nothing to do with time, age or rationality, it just lives inside us. I chose to believe that.
