14 December 2013

Words



There is nothing more odious than writing. There is nothing better than writing. It is a compulsion and a need. It is an addiction and an affliction. It is a craving and an intoxication. When I write I scorn peril and jeopardy and it allows me to soar and then glide. Words are my hegira. They are my carefree. They are my abandonment and elopement. They are my escape and my refuge.

My words define me and at times they defile me. Sometimes they elude me and often they delude me. Words are my counterfeit reality that I frantically and feverishly forge long into the lonely hours of dark nights. I am often oblivious to time when I write. I am in an abyss. When I can compose no more I then release my words and they flutter and fly. They scatter. They bloom and then whither. My words disenchant me and delight me. They are my curse and my blessing. They defeat me. They complete me.

They are my nothing and my everything.

With strokes of my keyboard I can make. I can create. At times the letters on my laptop are a clavier and my fingers tap out music. In a blur they dance and careen fantasies and follies and fatuities. There are truths hidden among the lies in writing and deceit mingled with veracity. There are happy endings and sad endings and sometimes there are no endings at all. When strung together in the right order words have virility. They have power that can create and actualize imagination. They weave dreams. They can infuriate and enrage. They can conceive laughter or spawn tears. They can motivate. They can inspire.

There is nothing more odious than writing.

There is nothing better than writing.

It is a compulsion.

It is a need.

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