Have you ever thought that what if the prehistoric men hadn't devised a way of communicating and had just relied on signs and intuitions? If there were no barks and stones been marked, no parchment or manuscript been inked, what sort of a world would that would have been? There was a reason why the cavemen scribbled on the walls of caves trying to carve out something more pure and beautiful that their tangible world and reality in which they were confined into could offer. It didn't just clear out the air of ennui and despondency but also added perspective and longevity to their lives.
Without words we would have been oblivious to our past and clueless about the future. The epics and sagas, be it Mahabharata or Odyssey would have no significance and many tales and stories would have gone unheard. But how strange it is that that something so intangible can impact you to an extent beyond reason. I thrive on fiction more than reality because its an escape from the monotony and finality of the real world and a privilege to be a part of numerous stories and experience many lives.
It has the magic to transport you to anywhere and everywhere. Make you cry in the middle of the day over a character you haven't met and a character that doesn't even exists. The power to make you go sleepless for days. The power to remain recluse yet being surrounded by people through their stories. The power to juxtapose your reality and fantasy in one frame. Writing and painting are the means of telling others the unheard, showing the unseen and knowing the unknown. That's from where this proclivity of writing has maybe seeped into me. It's a way for maintaining my sanity. The chaos inside you that you are unable to express to someone gets cleared away when poured out into words. Words are forgiving as they never pass any judgement or advice which makes writing an indispensable part of my life.
Reading your own words about how you were afraid, sometimes lonely but always brave; the way you perceived the colours, smell and texture of world at a particular point in your life ; makes you able to live twice, both in the moment and retrospect. I know what I write is stupid, verbose, trash but still I can't stop my prolix pen because I know no and nothing better. As William Faulkner said that, "If I had not existed someone else would have written me, Hemingway, Dostoyevsky all of us".
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