Many say that words are powerful. I say that they are power.
I’m fourteen, and I officially took up writing, well, a few months ago. During this time, I’ve been repeatedly asked how I write the way I do, or some other variation of the same. Each time, my answer is unchanged: “I don’t.” And it’s true: I don’t write. All my mind does is make sure I’m not terrorizing the language like any grammar Nazi you’ll ever meet. I’d love to say that my heart does the writing bit, but sadly, I think it’s a little too busy beating to do anything as scrupulous or exerting like forming multi-tactical sentences. In fact, a small part of me can’t help but worry about other writers who “write with their hearts.” Isn’t that slightly risky? And besides, isn’t a pen good enough?
The truth is, it isn’t my brain, or (thankfully) my heart that I write with. Rather, I like to think it’s my soul. The soul itself is a puzzler for the ages, and we can’t say for certain what it is or does — or whether or not it even exists. Fortunately for all those conflicted writers out there, including the one currently writing this, not knowing what something does means that it can do anything, making it the perfect little scapegoat for every unexplained bit of esoterica in our lives. This is why I guiltlessly blame my soul for the origin of every word flowing from the nib of my pen.
Words have always been my refuge, things that I not only escaped into, but those that escaped into the vast dreamscape of life with me. They’re by my side every step of the way. I wouldn’t say they’ve never failed me: they have, and do, often. But then again, what doesn’t? And besides, I like to think that they make up for it. Whenever I’m forlorn, or frightened, or brimming with rage, they calm me. Ground me. The longer and more ludicrous or unused the word, the better. They’ve always taken me in, have always been there right beside me, ready to catch me when I fall. Sometimes, they are the ones that make me fall, but they catch me all the same.
I believe that words are magical things. As we give shape to them, they give shape to the formless, seamless ink that writes them. This ink then paints images on the backs of our eyelids and steadily flows to unbeknownst places and dimensions, carrying us with it. We float on in ignorant bliss, unassuming and untroubled, recognizing only the ebb and flow of worlds passing by. They rob us of our hearts and replace them with intricately carved stone, so lifelike that we can tell no difference, until they pull us in and make our pulse beat again. Words are the intangible bits of matter that form atoms, and thus form life itself. They are in the wind and in your mind and in the hearts they returned. Even a single warped, twisted word can tear someone apart and sew them back together. Without them, life wouldn’t be what it is. They give us the power not only to communicate, but also to be. They give shape to our thoughts, providing them with tiny hands to hold on to, making them feel as though they’re not insignificant. As though they matter. They can build things up and pull them down within a single brush of time. I once read somewhere that the words we speak, or write, are like arrows: once released, you don’t get to take them back.
At least, not until they’ve left their mark.
How, then, can I say that I write words? What if they are the ones who write me instead? They breathe with a life of their own, one that I cannot hope to touch, lest I taint it. Words are immaterial, and beautiful for it. They are your nightmares and your daydreams and the thing you love most. And this, simply, is because words are everything. I didn’t even mean to write this. Each sentence has been pulled out of me, as though by an invisible thread. Some say it’s talent, but I think it’s power. Their power. It’s true that we can bend words to our will, twist and stretch them until they’re afloat in a sea of their own making. We can tear rivets into the very fabric of the universe, lighting a small spark, soon to morph into blazing fire, burning down the walls between love and hatred, fear and exultance, pain and glee.
But in the end, it’s them, not us. They’re the one’s who light the spark.
