By Edeline D’Souza, 19 March 2013
A blank page, the blinking cursor.
A state of oblivion with so much potential, but nothing tangible; a place for ideas that could be; a space for ideas glorified, of false starts and backspaces. This is an ode to writing.
I never know how far and how deep an idea can be, I self-judge and criticise my own work until it’s no longer mine — or mine in a way it couldn’t be anyone else’s. I feel despondent at the thought that some people will simply skim my work or glance at the title and move on. I delight in thought that there may be others who will linger on my the lines that fill a page and preserve me for the world to see.
But then I remember the times where words simply flowed, poured out in awesome torrents, in unguarded revelations, warring with other words, phrases and sentences just waiting to enlighten, delight and strike an innate chord, one that you never even knew existed.
Writing simply is. It is the immortalisation of ideas. It is the communication of views and opinions. It is the megaphone that never shouts, but rather entices you, that beckons in loving fiction, intellectually attractive information. It can be re-read or hold multi-faceted perceptions in its black on white minimalism.
If you listen carefully … hush … you can hear the beautiful cadence of letters that, unassuming on their own (a…b…c), creates an orchestra of big ideas and big emotions, of obscure meanings or soulful resonance in its entirety.
The single page in a book that makes you cry, the poem that hold inferences that you can only attempt to construe, to reconstruct the turmoil, the love, the rejection, the awe, the epiphany, the apathy that each word was lovingly sculptured in like pottery, perfectly structured in the wheel of the mind, and nuanced in the kiln of the heart.
Your relationship with words can extend from the back of information pamphlets to the musings of philosophers and bards of eras bygone; with words that caution, inspire or cast you into a time you feel you belong; in a depiction of an experience, in the promise of tomorrow, the catharsis of pain and the identification with humans you never knew, artists you cannot meet, except through the eternal transcendence of their work that spans across time, space, culture, religion, social circles, and our own mortality. But behind every artistic work is a person in a moment of unity with the cosmos, with mortal transience and a suspected whisper from the tumultuous beauty of life.
There is art in simplicity, there is beauty in complexity but there is exquisite splendour in a piece of writing.