Words, like clenched fists, come sooner to some of us.
We call ourselves writers. We are baptised at the altar of the interschool competition, lionized by our parents and teachers alike and looked at with an equal mixture of awe and suspicion by the lesser beings we meet everyday. We write essays about world peace and poems that become routine drawing room conversation. And then one day...some of us grow up.
We realize that out there, it's a world of investment bankers and Indian idols. A cruel world where a man with a fountain pen had better be signing a cheque. We hold in our writing guts and pretend to be rock stars and english teachers, cardiac surgeons and well, 'copy' writers.
But every once in a while, when the world is looking the other way, the masks fall, the curtains part and we stand revealed. Somewhere, somehow, in wordy prescriptions, in passionate love letters, in long long long smses and 250 slide power point presentations, we allow ourselves to be immortal. We are writers again.
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3 comments:
Bravo
awesome post.
Ah, those immortals that inhabit worlds of words created to comprehend worlds that refuse to acknowledge words. ;)
Let the mask fall away more often. Happy wording. :)
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