Sometime during the air of mystery that sparks ghost stories in late nights or early mornings, you’ll see me scribbling and hiding my pen and paper like Winston Smith of Oceania in 1984. It’s not for fear of Big Brother, but rather habit from having my little sister bust into my room like the terrifying 90’s classic Kool-Aid Man for most of my life.
The Harlem Renaissance was a time spanning the 1920s when Black Americans of Harlem, New York City created Jazz, produced some of my favorite paintings, new styles of dance, the most cherished pieces of literature, theatre, and so much more. COVID, although happening in a much different time and state of existence, could possibly inspire the same.
The very first job I ever had was something I built for myself back in elementary school. I confess that It’s not something I can ever put on my resume. In fact, I was actually threatened with arrest at one point during the height of my business success.
He asked me what I would say to God if I could have any question answered,
And I said that I would have little to say.
If I had to go on living after the question I would endure the rest of a life substandard.
All writing is creative. A writer puts their imagination into everything that they do.
Reading was an escape to another adventure different from our own. We could travel beyond the words printed on the page and climb to new heights previously unknown.
My best friend and I found ourselves, once again, traveling by car across the country. I didn’t need to, but I jumped in the car to spend the last few days that I will have for a while with my best friend.
There’s a feeling you get when you are home alone in the middle of the night. A dash of panic and you try your best to remind yourself to breathe.
Still, I sit outside with my laptop open and facing me like an outspread book filled with my scrawling that decorate the pale white digital pages with dark letters. I pause only for moments at a time to grab the metal canister of boiling hot green tea sitting on the wooden table in front of me to warm my core and propel me further into my fit of writing.
The lingering moisture that gathered in the air has always done that to me. Perhaps a bit of the past was carefully mixed in along with the misty fog too.