After a few hours spent reading multiple articles and speeches, it dawned on me that our world was made by a word, and changes time and again on powerful words.
He spoke and darkness turned to light. The earth was formed and today hangs suspended at His word. His word was life.
Words…, simple words have so fancifully changed the course of the world across ages. And those who have spoken the best of versus have carved their names on the stone slabs of history. Winston Churchill once said that History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it. And rightfully the words he professed have resounded in a linear timeline and in all echelons of humanity.
With venom infused speeches against Browns, and his obsession for Blonds; the Nazi God-man aroused a masquerade and birthed little Nazis. At the command of his word, Jews fell from the face of the earth as leaves from withered tree.
The Great Chanakya had his mind brimming with thoughts; thoughts which he penned down as Arthashastra and with it dexterously devised the fall of Dhana Nanda and the rise of Chandrasekhar Maurya, who became the first of the Mauryan Empire
Shakespeare rejuvenated literature and young love. He lives perennially in the ear marked pages of Romeo & Juliet, Hamlet and others
Gautam Budha left his regalia and shunned kingship with nothing but the clothes on his back and the fervor in his speech. With a new day, a new doctrine was formed..Budhism
When King narrated his epic dream, he gave a modus operandi to the fight for colored freedom. He melted hardened hearts, dissolved the capsule of ego and hatred ; and inflamed the desire for change and courage when he said “I Have a Dream”
I didn’t quite realize when the inception of my love for words began. I never had an epiphany. There was no imploding desire that enraged me to pick up a pen and string together letters that would be transformed to a quantum leap. But in time I learned the exhilaration of being able to capture the attention of people, convince their thoughts and mold them to your own.
How satisfactory, the knowledge of having spilled over ideologies, opinions and bearing yourself on a curated tree bark and yet not having a single soul know of the happening. How consoling the appearance of bloodied ink flowing, that convulses and curls to form mysteries, fantasies and fairies. Like a drunk, high on power, when I have pieced together compelling words; like a new Mozart in the making. Each time I write I sense a new beginning and I nurture a different voice, along with a different face. I bask in the delight of being one among many, and many among one.
The thoughts aimlessly swim through my nerve endings. I conceive them, not knowing how I do, or for what forlorn purpose I do. The itching in my fingertips unravel hopes, fancies, senselessness, stupidity, inferences, musings, introspections, deductions and revelations that I wear as a proud diadem. For words are what define me; words I’ve spoken is what I am remembered for, and long after my breath ceases and my bones turn soft, I will still live immortal through words I’ve imparted across
And as I write yet again, bliss rains over me.
“For there is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed”