I’ve always wanted to know why I live through written lines, or why I move only through words and language. While others are touched by gestures, by actions, by motion, I breathe prose and beautiful conversation. Like the One giving life to the many, writing is the place where the soul meets body, where word and motion become united by a voice unseen to those created.
It’s silly how other people slam the craft, saying how easy it is to describe a tree or jot down words. You say good, I say smashing. You say bad, I say malevolent. You say kind, I say altruistic. And you stop there, knowing there is a right and wrong description of how to create a story. It has a beginning, a middle, and an ending. It’s basic science, you boast as you pound your chest loudly. You see a tree and quickly point out the leaves, the trunk, and the roots. But what do I see? I see her leaning on it, crying, begging him to take her back, and I see him pulling away, storming out as the leaves beneath his feet crunch, broken and unabashed like the way she broke his heart. You see the tree. I see the love story.
Why do I write, you hypothetically ask? It’s difficult to answer because the craft I so love is also implied slavery, where the voices in my head command me to write their tales down, stories I couldn’t even fathom until now. I go type away, page by page, writing all the words to describe what I say, what they tell me to see. Adrenaline runs through my veins, the scenes coursing through the nerves in my head, and the characters pounding loudly, faster, faster.
Even in my sleep I see them, and while you may think it’s crazy, it isn’t. Imagine how overwhelming it is to see a world right in front of you that others cannot see. Imagine how overwhelming it is to hear the faint tings of bike bells as they run through the white stone pavement of the city just by lying on the bed. What do you hear, you ask. I hear life.
I am at a word war constantly, trying to find new ways to interpret the songs in my head. Conversations fill up page after page, scenes coloring themselves in like a painter brushing with paint, and characters coming to life. This is the place where soul meets body, a finite place, a place that will have its end when I tell it to.
She screams, he screams. He says hello to the neighbor and she buys an ice cream from the local vendor. He tosses a basketball into the hoop and she wins a new case at a trial. But what happens when the turning point comes, when they finally realize that they have to solve everything else, their issues before their world comes to an end? It does feel terrible for a world so magnified to die out after a while. Eventually, everything dies, even words.
I write the word say, but how many words can be associated with the word say? You have speak, utter, voice, pronounce, vocalize, declare, state, etc. But even that et cetera has to end somewhere. There are those times when you see something and you think to yourself, ‘this is indescribable. I can’t—I’m at a loss for words.’ You lose yourself in the beauty of something so deep, you lose the ability to speak. Yes, only imagination takes wing forever, because while everyone’s gone, an alternate universe is created somewhere. You may not see it, but again, that’s the place where soul meets body.
And when I lay my hand on the mirror, seeing myself and myself only, where had the world I created gone to? I see the window with the dark, starry night blockaded by the metropolitan progress that is the city and I see the fluorescent lights above me. I only ever go to the place where soul meets body soon after because right there and then do I find peace in the noise.