You see scribbling on the wall of the filthy and pungent cell that can barely hold more than 3 people. You would never had noticed it had you not sat on the bench and touched the cold, unfeeling wall with your fingers.
Who can see the inner me?
I smile when I felt dreary
I laugh when I am in agony
I conceal my innocence with treachery
I mask my sincerity with hypocrisy
Indeed who can see?
It was a marvelous poem, in fact, too marvelous to be seen in such a place like this. The place which once contained the lowest forms of mankind. Yet further down from the poem, you see another stanza.
I am the one who knows your love
I see you, feel you, hear you
Set forth unto me
I will embrace you, love you, free you
The engravings appears to be made with the same blunt tool and by the same hand yet they feel too different from each other. "Who wrote these?" you asked. Are they by the same person? Can you simply appreciate the poem without knowing who wrote them? Is there an urge to find out why it was written? Is it important at all?
Roland Barthes points out the difference between the author and the writer. A writer uses language for the main purpose of using it as a tool to convey his ideas whereas the author uses language for its very attributes. The author does not use language for his own motives. The consequence of which is that the author is disassociated form the text which he has written.