Sitting on a field during a sunny afternoon once upon a time, the shadows grew long toward the horizon. While it was their shape that fascinated me then, I now look at them with some understanding.
Today marks the 5th year of Liu Xiaobo’s detention and all I can think of are the long shadows we end up imprisoning our spirits in when we refuse to let the writers light shine through his words. How much longer will writers suffer censorship? How many more generations will be raised in ignorance because we do not teach them to read what is written? How many tales will remain untold and what meaning will we glean from a life devoid of our own stories written down for us to recognize ourselves by?