When little else comes to comfort me, in times of dire exasperation or anger, I write. I write to touch upon a part of myself greater than what is discovered in speaking or in breathing. It is a part of me that I wish to understand more, to delve further into as the days stretch into nights and until my pen writes no more. I wish this, and I wish it upon everyone.
The most effective way to communicate is to write, for words of mouth can be misconstrued by tone or bias. Writing sentences and bringing them together helps one communicate more effectively because words on paper are everlasting and clear, the effort put into them being the result of many contradicting thoughts adjourned into the most comprehensive sentences.
Voicing one’s thoughts without the aid of something written can be unkempt, as if one’s mind and tongue were like rooms in need of tidying or a sky burdened by clouds. What would reek from a politician’s mouth had he not been given his speech on a piece of paper, drafted by the hands at his disposal?
The well conversed speak successfully because they know how to write. We have conversations every day constructed by words we don’t think about. What dribbles from our mouths is sometimes nonsensical blather, meaningful only when we want it to be. I believe this is from a lack of writing. The practice itself forces the mind to work harder than it would in typical conversation. To write is to create something beautiful; if we forge beauty every day, I believe what we say will replicas of the glorious words we write.
However, to say these conversations are worthless would be insensitive, for conversations are stories within themselves, but the desire I possess is that every word that emanates from one’s mouth or from one’s pen be with purpose, or some exquisite inspiration, and not just to magnify the clamor. Writing can assist the author in her speech, for it is an extension of the mind put down clearly on paper and articulated in a way that is understandable and concise.
When we connect our mind to our pens and therefore to our mouths without discrepancy or inability, I believe we will be able to surpass all impediments. In learning how to write in a way that is beautiful, effective, and fierce, we will begin to master our languages and understand them further.
Humans are meant to write; how else is he to pass along to the hands of history his life and his troubles? This is why we must learn how to do it well. The possibilities of a well-conversed and talented population end only when we cease to communicate. When we have lost our languages or our hands, our fingertips, our pens, we have no means to carry out the wishes that all men hold; life after death. We crave our memories remain intact. We hope the thoughts of our loved ones linger on us and the intimate histories we have left upon the earth after our bones have resorted to ash, dust and decaying flesh blending with the dirt atop where we stir no more.
What better way to do this but to write ourselves into history? Perhaps this will not apply in the conventional way, for each individual of the human population will not be as widely remembered as celebrities or political figures, but we care for our own histories; the ones comprised of the little, cherished relationships we have nurtured from our first point of existence; between ourselves and our mothers, our fathers, our brothers and sisters; our friends and acquaintances, the foreigners we see on our way to work or to class or to whatever backdrop our histories take place.
By immortalizing ourselves in writing, we have not only promised our loved ones a memory to which they can clutch dearly, but we have also poured ourselves onto paper stained with ink that commemorates us. Even if our relationships are broken by time or death, the paper will remember us and hold us to the standard of the greatest thing to ever grace its white face.
I am a lover of words and how they often fit well together. It saddens me to see the dying nature of good writing, sacrificed for interest in other matters, forsaken by my fellow peers out of time constraints or dislike for the subject. I cannot implore my readers more to pick up their pen, even if its ink has never once been filled.
The words that flow may perhaps be one’s worst, but practice, and practice further than expectations, is what makes anything good. Write out the bad until only what transpires is something exceptional. Everyone will not desire to make their practice their profession and that poses no problem—the world needs variety more so than it does a populus solely containing writers and authors and journalists. However, the scientists write their lab reports, the businesspeople their proposals, the politicians their speeches. Writing is everywhere; time and our lives prove that we must grasp its infinite abilities.
