What Words Mean To Me.

I write like some cry, sing or run. I write to make myself laugh or cry, I write to cleanse myself from within. I write to forgive and forget, to make sense of things that don’t, to reflect, to not let words that I’ll regret slip out of my mouth. I write to witness the beautiful blend of words spring to life and become an entity of its own. No one remembers the writer, but you’ll actually remember the words. I write to travel to distant lands, to explore the realms of the visible and the invisible, to awaken consciences and put fears to sleep. I write to create kingdoms of which I’m king, having absolute powers over the characters, make people live or die if I wish to. Writing’s really nothing else than a game for control obsessed dictators who don’t have the courage to overthrow governments. Writing enables the spoilt child in me to have it my way, no questions asked. The keyboard is my wand, letters form the words I order, if I don’t like something I’ll just press delete. Words are dangerous, writers are tiresome, always looking for the perfect adjective to express a feeling, always in their dreams. Writers, like all artists, are feared by the Establishment: beware, for if they don’t like something, and they’re bound to, they’ll just write about it, denounce it, advocate for a change, and people might listen to them more than to you politics, for you’re stained with corruption and they’re not (or should not). Words can be soft, or loving, they can carry love and care, or they can be like weapons, all sharp and edgy, accusing and menacing. They can convey ambivalence, you can agonise over them, trying to decipher them, you’ll cry for a context, for an explanation, more words. Choose your words carefully, because once they’re out on paper, or lost in cyberspace, or engraved in somebody’s brain there’s little you can do about it, you’ll just have to live with them. I write to create, for the moment I’ll stop creating, I know I’ll be dead.