“The words always flowed though, somehow, as though they were hidden in some old dusty chamber of my mind, a treasure-chest of thoughts, connected, somehow, to my fingers -knowing exactly when I held a pen, or touched the keyboard- to come rolling down, like precious pearls and rubies, and be embedded in ink forever.
“Ah words– beautiful words; old words; heard words; forgotten words; dismissed words; loved words; lost words; new words; magical words; this word and that word… rushing out on paper to fulfill their destiny, to be read, to be heard, to be felt and to be honoured.
“Words can beautify the everyday ugliness, mask and sugarcoat the humdrum of routine, brighten the dull and silver the grey… Is there anything more exquisite?
“And that is precisely why the writer writes, robed in words, to be undressed by some insightful reader who beholds the raw, pure truth behind the veil of words, and loves it in all its ugliness, and all its eloquence; knowing every secret, and extracting every ounce of wisdom from it; knowing every fear, and taking heart from it; knowing every darkness, to believe in the light; and seeing every bit of reality, covered in fiction and sweet rhyme; for words connect souls, and it is only through words, that one can be vulnerable enough to be truly known, truly understood and truly loved….”
I read somewhere that one should never sit to write without an idea of what one is going to; yet ever since that really young age, when I began letting my demons out in ink, I always found myself venturing out on the journey of words without a predetermined thought, or a preconceived destination, or any clue as to what I was really on to… I do not know if that makes me a really brave or a really stupid writer- maybe both; the line is pretty thin anyway.
Maybe it was the smell of printed books, the exhilarating shuffling of pages, the feel of ink-stained fingers that goaded me on – the inner me, the core of my soul, always knowing what she was doing – I being just the physical channel.
The words always flowed though, somehow, as though they were hidden in some old dusty chamber…
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