Late in the afternoon of a surprisingly chilly summer night, I sat, with my back facing desolate silence, thinking.
Thoughts and ideas jostled for space, tripping over one another, trying their hardest to shove their neighbors away as they delivered themselves, one by one, into the thinking area of my mind. It was almost comical, the way they raced to their goal—thinking only of the information at hand.
On the bumpy wooden table before me were the notes that I’d taken with Rose. Sometimes it saddened, sometimes it angered, but the words that flowed out of her mouth when she spoke about her former life—as a slave—were always pure and true to the bone. She didn’t want the money, she said, when I paid her, that it was enough that I was risking myself to change the country, but I always managed to force it into her calloused hands. It made me feel more and more that I was actually doing this—writing this book, spilling my feelings, my emotions, for all the world to see.
2006-12-05
11:20:14
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