This morning, the sun rose over the eastern horizon—although I did not see it rising over the horizon. Perhaps I should not mention the sunrise as though I were there for it. Homewood is a town of many buildings and trees, and besides that I was inside of the garden department at six-thirty in the morning so I did not even see the sun until it was rather high up in the sky. The light did not directly penetrate into the garden area until at least half an hour past sunrise, or dawn, or the moment the sun takes its first peek around the corner of the world, the moment that the meteorologists time with stopwatches every morning that the world turns that last one thousandth of a degree.
What was I saying about the sunrise? Oh yes, that it occurred this morning, although I did not see it. Though, technically, when I was driving along the gravelly road behind the store at approximately ten minutes to six, I happened to glance to my left—which is the east—and noticed a crackling glimpse of golden light glimmering just on the edge of a deeply purple sky. Perhaps this was the actual sunrise.
But I was thinking about caffeine at the time. Starbucks is the one joy that I have. I arrive there moments before a grueling workday of physical routine begins. There is no Starbucks close to school, so school days are characterized by a very early though very leisurely drive to work which includes some form of distinct detour toward one of the outlets of daily sustenance. Sustenance? What an odd word I have chosen for this purpose. Sustenance means nourishment. Is this daily intake of caffeine “nourishing” to my body, necessary to my daily function, critical as a first stop every morning? Sustenance does not seem like the right word, though technically it “sustains” me. Perhaps I have chosen the correct word after all. Perhaps you do not understand me or know me. Allow me to introduce myself for I have neglected to do so.
I am a writer. No, not “the” writer, for I have never written a thing, but I am “a” writer, for I have never not written. That double negative did not make me cringe the way that “the” writer might do, “the” being an article to differentiate between one who writes for a living and “a” writer, one who lives for writing. What is writing, then, you may ask, especially of “a” writer—namely myself—who claims never to have written. Writing, I tell you, is a state of being, a life of the mind, a sense of the self, an inner identity, a being, a soul, a heart, an inspiration. A writer paints with words, even though he never raises a pen or places his hands upon a typewriter’s keys. A writer thinks in words, designs them, creates them, builds with them, obliterates with them, understands with them…words are not “used,” as the common language-user may ignorantly suspect, language-users are “used” by words. Words are using me now, manipulating me, pulling at my arms and legs like a puppeteer manipulates its doll. I am not myself and I am not free; I belong to words.
It is a worthy bondage.
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