Words, Once Dull to Its Core, Now Gives Me Asylum
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In the midst of all external mayhem, I find solace in words — pure, innocent, sometimes stinging, yet always ineffably narcotic. Word: I admire its nuanced nature as much as envying its volume to move hearts and invigorate souls. Following this mantra, I began, word by word, line after line, one paragraph trailing another, composing my never-ending story; and I could hardly stop. It has me captive, and will not let go or loosen grip.
This, however, has not always been the case.
As even the most established authors understand all too well, writing is no easy task. Yet for me, an emerging writer whose passion for awe-inspiring prose and touching lines of poetry piqued only after a newfound fondness for the agency of words depicted in 1984, this quest for becoming a better writer proved more wobbling than any. To this day, even as my writings have become more eloquent and word-choices no longer cliche, I have not left behind those instances of my sitting in front of a salt-white screen scraping my head till my fingers blushed or times when that ink-infused gel pen dried up its tears before meeting canvas. These moments, ultimately, made me the writer I am today because, even when I gave in, I did not give up; even as I failed, I prevailed. Even when resent, I sent. I kept challenging what I knew were the limitless bounds of my comfort zone. Words, I figured, were my allies when not nemeses.
Literature is an unending puzzle — you baffle at times only to fathom something new, brighter, and closer to success.
This mentality brought me far.
The next thing I knew, I could put my waning childhood memories — memories overly precious and too profound to be merely stored in the brain — into words, sealing shattered pieces of my upbringing into indelible stretches of words, beaming at my heart and guiding my paths forward. This led me to composing my brief memoir, recounting the once-indescribable encounters of racism that never have I thought would be one day recorded (by myself).
The mystical pen was the ruthless force of society, as I stride down the track it lays for me, ignorant of all vicious intentions. I stumbled, but stood up, and learnt. I opened my soul wide, hands no longer tied, and let emancipation burst over it. No feeling in this world beats it — a packed doc, a sweat-misted keyboard, a self immersed; the world at my discretion.
In an increasingly dull world and an era dominated by digital spectacles, writing gave, and preserves, my voice. For all outside clamor thunder its way as I find solace in words. Now, as coincidental as it was destined, I think I’ve found the place to shine — to voice myself freely, with unreserved lines lifted from the depth of my heart.
In this realm of words, we are all subject to the rules and confines set by our very selves. We strive to live up to the faint expectations that stripped failure of its existence. Failures, we were once told, never held a place in this world — until embraced by the tranquility of words. We look up to the sky only to be awe-struck by its blankness, its purity, its untainted body, just like the plainness of words.
Words, as we finally look upon them with pairs of gleaming eyes, rest pristine for an eternity.
