Abstract, yet changeable,
Intangible, yet stunningly real,
Vibrations through the air,
Beautiful amalgamations of pitch and strength,
Intensity and frequency,
Free from the material world,
Yet a part of the same,
Beautiful creations of nature,
And the creations of her creations,
Through heart and soul,
The meaning of everything;
Syllable, and tone,
A flowing river, and a stepping stone,
Melody and lyricism,
Beauty and Sublimity,
Joyful, Joyless, and full of sorrow,
Silence, euphony and cacophony;
The joy of the world,
The wonder of the artistry:

28th March, 2020


Now, words are amazing creations; no doubt about that particular thing. But they are so very hard to control. The speed of thought and the speed of articulation through words has a huge gap between them, and therefore they are out of phase in most instances; not in sync. Now, this poses a huge problem: how to properly articulate words as soon as the thought arises in your head. Looks like words needs some taming to be done.

But when you study words, you tame the very essence of words, they lose their wildness (pretty self-evident). But, within their wildness resides the essence of the beauty of words. Taming them makes that essence vanish, and what you are left with is a colourless hunk of disgusting stew: A tasteless ocean of monotony and gritty sand.

So I don’t. I just let my broken string of words be. I scribble as my thoughts scramble and eventually whatever formed resembles a poem. I do not pay attention to form, style, grammar, etc. as I don’t have the capacity to think so fast and so far. Hence I consider poetry to be that compromise between the gap I mentioned in the first paragraph.

Now, poetry for me began that way, but as every creation of human beings, it has become its own living creature. I wouldn’t presumptuous enough to try to define what poetry for me is: it is just too a huge a concept, a living breathing changing creature that lives in ambiguity, favours layered meanings, and is never really clear, even to the maker.

All I know is that poetry is one of the most sublime ways that I can articulate myself, and I think it is a part of my own identity. I am satisfied with that. I do not want to know the full truth of poetry; I want to discover it slowly, and experience that inexplicable feeling of anticipation and apprehensiveness while swimming in its mysterious depths.


What are words? Merely strings of meaningless letters bridging together foreign ideas. But, that is only but a superficial view of the enormous power of words. These little pieces of abstract intangible things hold amazing power over the human psyche. One can compare and label words as anything: a weapon, an expression, an enemy, a friend, jewellery, power, or even nothing at all. But whatever you label it as, the insidious scope of words transcends the imagination of its creators. Words are a huge body of living, breathing things that exist in a plane of existence higher than ours. They are really, one of the most inexplicable things we humans have created, and therein is my interest in words.

This fascination of words didn’t really come to me in the beginning. I thought words to merely be tools, like a sickle or something like that. But, eventually, as I started reading books and started delving into that world of words, I realized these tools were much more. And that was basically why I started writing. But this begs the questions: 

Am I a writer; a person who uses words to his/her best ability to give out to the word? 

Am I a word-user; merely a person who uses words as a means of communication? 

Am I an opportunist; a person who uses words as a planner, to turn any situation to my advantage? 

Am I a fake; a person who convinces himself and the world that he likes words while he couldn’t care less?

What I would like to be categorized as; to be labelled as is a friend of words; someone who is with those little things at the best of times, and at the worst of times.

But is that really true? What am I?

Well, I am not sure, and I do not know how I can solve this conundrum. Learn another language, perhaps?

All I know is this: I appreciate the power words hold, and I also appreciate their intrinsic fragility and sublimity, and I feel tingles (I resonate if that makes more sense) while playing with words.

Now, I leave this post inconclusive, and will update it later (probably after learning a new language)…