2017

2017

Thursday, 9 July 2015

Dear Diary: Forget me not

I had forgotten how it felt like to write. To write, for me. Not for academics or for want of appraisal and endless eulogies from learned men and women, but for myself. The pen lied limp with my worn fingers, and I could not find the strength as I once did, to convey my mind through the au fait medium of language. The novelty once beguilingly magnetic, was lost --and with it, my mind.

Once, I read that good writing betrays good thinking. I could not disagree, for I was acutely aware of my own writing, almost a perfect parallelism of my mind. Unhinged, adrift, but ever inquisitive, full of anticipation come whatever may.

But as my eyes flickered to behold in reverential silence the abundance of novelists, poets, and authors, I was again overcome with a most pellucid view of what I would like to be, addressed not as a blogger but as a writer. Yes, a writer. The word idled at the tip of my tongue, leaving a lingering aftertaste that could nearly be described as saccharine.

Language throughout times ancient, medieval, and even present has never failed to command a certain degree of presence, heavy with history, suffused with deep meaning. The love for language and writing has always been something possessed within myself that I could not (in fact I cannot) quite describe, even as everyday neologisms present their magical meanings, painting a resplendent picture of art.

A writer.

Could I ever be? Yet in the deluge of composition originators I heard a still voice breathe, barely a whisper.


"Forget me not."



"I won't." I whispered.





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