thoughts upon silence
What I love, is the power of language, the way it can be used as a manipulative tool or a harsh weapon or a house for what one feels. I type out each letter one at a time, desperately looking at the word trying to figure out if I spelled it correctly, and then I get lost in my attempt to adequatly convey my feelings into words and sentences and paragraphs and stories.
I scribble down notes in my diary, at random pages, and sometimes I even write down some lyrics so that I can hold a pen or a pencil in my hand and place its tip on paper and fill it with little symbles that usually try to grasp the core of human nature. As I write down my letters, playing out with the words that I have chosen, I too try to grasp my core, my very own human nature while I also try to use language, writing mostly, to communicate with other human beings. Like an anthropologist, I observe the jungle around me, thinking while watching, making mental notes, absorbing people’s expressions as I steal moments of their privacy. And while I observe, I write and while I write, I play with words and although I have trouble articulating my feelings, I come home to empty pages and I write down my stories. I don’t know who reads my poetry yet publishing my most primitive, private thoughts has become more of a necessity than a hobby.
There’s also some power in that; admitting your love, your pain, your thoughts, your stories to the general public although when I am confonted its uncomfortable and I respond with shy smiles because I’m not sure If I care. Publishing serves different purposes; when the piece of writing is about love then like a child who has a new toy, I want to declare it ; when its pain and loss I want the words to leave my body, I feel them steaming out of my brain, my lips part to make way for them as they journey to the blank page to form themselves into poems or stories. When its about history or politics or my city then I’m filled with the need to write it down and rationalize it ; as I write, I think and then I conclude and things are clearer in my head.
What I fear, is memory ; the lack of it as well as its enduring perservation when one wants to forget. Every year I spend a respected amount of time to chose my daily calander that I also use as a diary ; I write down little insignificant details, some poetry and what I do or who I see every day. I also collect memorabilia ; boarding passes , train tickets, wrapping papers, letters, small pebbles and sea shells, I even have sand somewhere. As I flick through old journals I often find my self not remembering