Words, those beautiful masterpieces, with letters carefully handpicked like fragrant herbs from a garden. A word can lift a soul and yet shatter hearts for good. The letters, if plucked with grace, strung together carry free emotion trapped in a heart, and some crushed under the weight of pursed lips.
A word can be a weapon to glue souls together and yet rip them apart. Some inspire a warm flush of butterflies, and some a distant, forgotten ache in the heart. Many carry the smell of midnight oil and the scholar’s despair, of a battle left unconquered and unfinished.
Infusing the beauty of thought in words is an art perfected by some over years, some a lifetime. I let the art soak in my blood and veins, sink deep in my heart, until I truly own and cherish it as a whole. I let it run through my fingertips and watch them create profound meaning, as the art sculpts clumps of letters into a masterpiece to leave an imprint on every witness.
A pen, no greater than the humble pencil, has been the best friend of a writer since time immemorial. A pen, when in the hands of a writer, is like an instrument in the grip of an artiste.
A word carefully sewn together is of the substance of heart and soul, like a woeful poem.
As one with great passion for literature, I feel I was chosen by the art, to give what I have to the world. I want to write a masterpiece, which would make every reader chew and digest and ponder over them for nights on end, like many books made me to.
A word carries unfathomable power. One can condense a profound miracle in a word, weave into it its myriad shades, yet confine an wonder of existence to mere letters. A word carefully sewn together is of the substance of heart and soul, like a woeful poem.
Words hold the quiet history of pride and bloodshed, the essence of the people. Perhaps that is why some tales are left unwoven and unsaid in despair, and others are left so for good.
Written for Medium in 2020
Comments
Post a Comment