What words had meant all this while, being flitted onto sheets, framing tidbits of all our lives?
The smooth, plain sheets, that dazzled with the soon-to-hold masterpieces lie in front of me, and a beautiful roller ball, with intricate patterns of blue and white, hung unopened, between my fingers. Tranquility; that was what words had meant all this while. The exhilaration of unspoken thoughts, flowing with the pen, onto the sheets, that was what we had been waiting for. To sketch characters with our own accordance, holding what we wished for them to hold, and stories, as unique as DNA, resided in all our minds. Peace, of that kind, in those inextinguished moments of solitude, was when you revealed yourself, to yourself. With such fluency, the words strung themselves, and how graciously they pleased our hearts.
Somewhere it was power, that was what they meant too. To spur tales of atrocities, and revolutions, to provoke other’s existence, and mock their insanity. Words do it all. We get accustomed to such depth, as to question the illogical; we become no less than the radicals. And how splendid it feels, to reside in the turmoil of thoughts, spinning mockeries, and being respected all along. To break, and to make, finally does make sense. Words hold such power, of love and ferocity at the same time.
But perhaps, they meant justification too. Justifying our emotions. When we speak amongst a hoard of people, our traitor tears betraying ourselves, words justify them. And those are the mistakes we are blamed for? Yes, words weave in and out to justify our actions. With words, we please our beloved; with words we justify our love. With words, we make sense. With words we make every fragment of the fantasy come true. It may have slipped our notice, but words, and maybe only words, justify a writer’s being.
Probably, most significant aspect of them is, that they personify the truth. They are the most precise reflections of the mind. They speak our minds, so how could they ever lie? They frame deceit, just as our minds do, they plot stories like our minds say. Words that were what they had meant all this while.
And love? Don’t you embrace words, in the galaxies of thoughts, nourishing their abstraction? With such tenderness, your brew them, picking out tales of such delicacies…
“I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of the hunger for life that gnaws in us all.”
― Richard Wright
And how moving, this sounds; behold, power, and love, and elegance of these delights, surpassing everything we could ever own.