Within a single day of our lives, we perceive thousands of small details that we do not pay attention to. The name tag of the person that served us, the scent of the guy waiting in line behind you, the lines etched into the pavement, the scratches on a car door, the buttons on your shirt, the footprint of your shoes, the water droplets falling from the tap in your kitchen, the conversation of two strangers in the corridor, the sound of coins rattling in your pocket, the roughness of one’s hands, the sturdiness of your chair, the backing vocals in a song playing on the radio, the softness of the keys on your keyboard, the pigmentation of your pen, the folded pages in a book, the profoundness of the rain, the consolation of new socks, the vivacity of the light from your lamp, the dust on top of your wardrobe, the humidity of the rain, the dead skin on your lips, the strand of hair that has fallen onto your clothes, the peeling skin around your cuticles and the solidity of the wind against your face.
It is only in words that we are truly able to comprehend the intricacy of our lives. It is only then that we are able to perceive the edifice of the minute details and the way in which they depict the smaller moments. It is only in words that we can foreground these details; it is only then that we can bring them into focus. This reminds me greatly of Kafka and the way he used detail to subdue everything.
Writing is about capturing and re-creating, about inventing and connecting. It is about reviving the small aspects of life that we choose to ignore. It is about projecting the intricacy of human interaction and the morsel of emotion that we sometimes find ourselves clinging to. Writing is about drawing attention to the stranger that held the door open for you, about the friend that offered you a piece of chocolate, and the covert simplicity of living. Although we as humans are complex, writing is a means of presenting and preserving ourselves in a way that is commendable; in a way that is comprehendible, in a way that inspires us to be better. Writing gives us something to aspire to, it provides us with a basis; it instigates progression. It allows us to capture our lives in a moment that will never exist again.
Writing is not really about telling, it is about sharing and relating, about finding what is already within us, about feeling those things that we have repressed, about extracting the truth from our souls. Writing teaches us about ourselves and our minds, it shows us truths and losses.
It is words that teach us about the magnitude and opportunities of life and death. Words teach us what it means to live, and we often want to live a life worthy of being fictionalised. We want to be worthy. We want to be as significant as the characterised version of ourselves.
Words are the most dominant thing in the universe and sometimes I forget how fortunate I am to be able to use them.