It's one of those days when you are itching to write something. Words are beautiful. They can express your heart, your mind, your soul. They have the power to hurt you, to make you smile. They have the power to possess you as well as to destroy you, they can make you and break you at the same time. They flow naturally sometimes; at the same time, they can make you chase them to find the correct ones.
Each one of us creates stories in mind. For every situation we face. Especially while sitting idle, while travelling. Even while reading, the mind wanders. It creates stories on paper, it writes them, and erases them. Each time, the mind creates a new world for you - a perfect one. Things work as they are written. There are no surprises, only happy instances. No sorrows, no pain, no grief. Just a happy journey lasting for a few moments. A scene you can die for, a moment you can wait for your entire life. It looks so beautiful, surreal and pure, perfect beyond any perfectness.
Words have magic. Words have feelings. They can breathe. They have a heart that beats. You can hear them breathing if you listen to them carefully. You can feel them casting their spell on you. You can't help but fall in love with this magic. There is an invisible cord that pulls you closer each time you read and feel them.
Have you ever felt the words? Reading a book for the first time, and reading the same one 10th or 20th time - the feeling is different. Each word feels like a verse on those tattered yellow pages. The fading title resonates with your own life. This be the same book that grew up with you and grew old with you. Its pale skin reminds you of its loyalty towards you. It is almost worn out, but it has retained its magic as yet. Howard Roark is still the guy you desire and you have a passion for, John Galt is still a mystery which is too good to be true. Atticus Finch is the hero we need right now.
These books talk to you. They answer your questions. They become your companion in loneliness. They absorb your tears and don't complain. They love you back - more than you love them. They stay locked for months and years, see you getting close to other books. They age in depression. You can smell their sadness when you open them, you can see the patches of their dried tears on the otherwise crisp white paper. They have lost their youth behind waiting for you, but still embrace you without complaining.
They stare at you when you are lost in your scotch and forget to acknowledge them. They stay close to your heart when you hug the sleep, they will fall hard on the floor and don't move until you pick them up and lock them once again. They keep ageing, tattering, shedding tears, waiting for you to acknowledge them.
It's all about words at the end. Words written on them complete them. Words written by you in your mind define you. Each time you write a line, you change. And your words accept you. It's a power to create this world in your mind. It's a power to create such thoughts. And this power is addictive. It takes you everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
And this power is beautiful..