I love the power of the unspoken
word. The one that lives and dies in the mind of its nurturer. It feeds off the
vagaries of the mind – a constant vagabond. It neither provokes nor perturbs.
Sometimes you get to witness its metamorphosis to the written word and it is
acquires a form much more powerful, much more enticing than ever before. It
defines personalities in a way that mannerisms don’t. The written word is a
monologue that is uninterrupted. It flows unimpeded, like the wind in the
whistling woods. It stays and lingers like the scent of wild flowers in the
misty woods. It paints in splendid colours images unseen to the naked eye. The
mind traverses through unexplored kingdoms, shuttles between the present and
the past, leaps into the future and then precariously arrives into the present.
A good piece of writing is the
most exciting thing to come across, apart from good food of-course. There was a
time when I judged people by their shoes. But now I judge them by what they
write or in more common terms, what they ‘post’. Sometimes that is so glaringly
beautiful, that the stalker in me is put to rest only by google search results.
There are some lines I can read over and over again and their beauty grows each
time they are read. Then there are lines which I have written a couple of years
back, in a different phase of life, when life wasn’t just passing by, when age
was just a number, and when writing took priority in free time, and more
importantly when there was ‘free time’. I can’t help but admire how beautiful
those lines seem now, sometimes reminding me of situations in which their
genesis lies.
I believed that my love for
writing would become stronger with time. It has. And now like all love that matures,
it remains uncelebrated…