I Guess…

I had once written a long post on writing but now I cannot find the link. I have also forgotten what I had come up with on the subject.

Now re-thinking I find many replies to the prompt.

First and foremost, writing is a marvelous tool in the hands of an introvert. All that is pent up inside finds a crevice to ooze out. The interplay of words is fascinatingly alluring. Inside the cerebrum  piles up a rubble of thoughts and feelings and emotions. As these are  strung in words they transmogrify into stunning visuals which speak more than what was cerebrally construed.

In a world of auditory cacophony words are silent warriors, influencers, inspirers. They make and break. They construct and de-construct. They mistify and de-mistify. They mythify and de-mythify. They give voice to the voiceless. They give power to the powerless. They stimulate and enhance .

Words are mightier than any other weapon in the world. Therefore, words are to be used with caution, honesty and dignity.  Herein lies the magic and mystic of wordplay. Harsher realities can be toned down. Scathing truths can be made more acceptable. Even hurtful deprecation can be inflected more soothingly. However, the thread of honesty should not be scuttled. What is written carries the weight of accountability.

What I most enjoy about  writing is the process and the purpose. The process of writing transforms abstractions into legible narratives. This process involves a purpose. What do I want to say? What is the intent ? How do I legitimise my intent ? Why do I require to vocalise my intent? It has always been a point of debate whether purpose should precede the process or one should find the purpose going through the process.

For a person who has always looked out for a ventilatory medium writing is the best. Words give you a certain anonymity. Anonymity gives you freedom. You have ample time to organise yourself before you let words overtake you.

Having succinctly put all the what’s and whys together I guess it will not be an overstatement that writing is a distinctive way of self indulgence. It also kindles self introspection.

There are people who love to hear their own voice. Then there are people who love to read theirs. I belong to the latter. I guess I perceive through words. Words do not have any lingual barrier. Words are words. They are modes of expression – direct and effortlessly impactful. 

Writing for one’s own self and writing for others are two very different genres. There was a time I wished that I should be read widely.  Today, in the last leg of my journey, I write because it pleases me. Writing has become  reminiscentive. I chronicle my own history. Sometimes I read what I have written before and wonder how I have evolved through the process. How I used to express earlier and how now. As I look back I realise it’s a journey which gives me a rare opportunity of looking at myself. Evaluate and analyse myself. It’s a mirror of my life. Miraculously I am holding that mirror in my hand. I see ages back and beyond.

Today I have embedded myself in these words. Tomorrow my words will be different perhaps even in response to the same prompt. And then there will be a time when I shall supersede my words. Will someone else be reading me?

I really don’t care.

The day I feel I have nothing more to say I will go back to reading myself.

Leaving a trove of words for posterity is not my dream anymore.

If ever the posterity finds me in my words I shall take a bow gracefully in gratitude.

Till then let me write on to my heart’s content.

Pic from Pexel