An Affair With Words

typewriter

For the longest of time, I was extremely conscious of my writing, just as a bathroom singer would be amongst Grammy nominee vocalists. I loved how any emotion, even as deep and sacred as divinity in itself could be expressed with the art of stringing together the right words. It wasn’t just an art, it was a power, and I found myself achingly devoided of it.

I could never remember words as long as ‘concupiscence’, although it’s usage always amused me. It tickled my brain to come across words like ‘Renegade’, ‘Degenerate’, and ‘Denigrate’ because they all sounded so similar, yet meant so different. I was the one who always underlined words in books, because they read so pretty and I wanted to add them all in my word-robe. But, I was neither a scholar of  language nor of Literature. I just admired words, a lot.

However, bit by bit I started realizing that the purpose of words wasn’t just to sit pretty on white pages. Their purpose was to stir the soul of the reader and soak the white pages in his tears. Words meant nothing if they didn’t convey bursting conviction with which they were meant to be written. Words were the manifestation of the energy flowing from the mind of the writer to that of his reader. Slowly, I realized that I didn’t need to fret over remembering difficult words, I just needed enough.  I needed the words for channeling what I wanted to suck from my insides and splash out on the walls of this world.

Thus began a new affair with words. It was the kind of love that overwhelmed me, but comforted me at the same time. I wore myself out trying to sew words together on paper that my lips never could, and God that was so satisfying. Rants turned into creative writing and the bitterness of a heartache manifested itself as art. Everything retained beauty, even the darkest of moments. I loved the way a writer could induce emotions like a magician and then manipulate them like a puppeteer. I fell in love with the process and realized that it started loving me back.

I realized that it wasn’t the words that held the power as I once perceived, it was the bond of a writer with his words that summoned hurricanes or calmed the tides as he pleased. I wanted to be that Stormbringer, I wanted to make a difference, I wanted to write, and ever since, that’s all I want to do.

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