Writers are unpredictable, a debris full of dimension. You could never decode, or grasp onto a trait, because they are full of anything and everything. And they become your friends, through portrayals of paper characters, uniting a world, that once felt alone.
A few nights ago, I looked at a bookshelf that held a vintage lamp, books of literature and travel guides of places I could only dream to visit. As I skimmed past the prefaces of many best selling books of all times, and the gloss of the book covers, I looked at the roof and felt a sense of reverence. For these writers created stories, extracted by the own fragmented experiences in their lives and had imprinted, a need for people to understand them. Demanding people to understand life through sacrifice, love and existence. In those moments I laid on the comfort of coffee coloured carpet, spreading my arms in a sense of awe, watching my chest contract. And for a moment, I felt alive, a part of the constellations, mixed into a rubble of thoughts, unknown by the people around me.
What is it about a writer, that has the power to evoke emotion? It could be their ability to juxtapose characters or make us jump at unexpected plot twists. Is it the way lines break in between sentences, or where a quote is changed in italics? Maybe it is the sensation of flicking between pages with the tip of your index finger, or the smell of old books, that you walk past in a charity shop. I like miniature worlds, where it could be hidden within oak bookshelves. Presumably because it carries a universe within compacted paper, hidden underneath other stories, experiences. For me, I need to sink into a secretive world, where people wouldn’t invade, and breath, where someone could hear my silent screams. I like collecting different worlds, into a personal library, because I feel like these are the stories of me… And that’s the thing. Writers are never direct, but are people trying to understand themselves, hiding themselves behind protagonists and the characters of stories like us. Similar to readers, both the writer and the reader are a match needing to be heard, as they die to tell something, evoke something that they wish people could understand. It’s a mutual connection between 2 people under a tree, breathing in jasmine and green tea, broken, and patched back together.
In so many ways, writers are the the secrets behind our time, that shape us, represent the darkest parts of us, but also our happiness within all of the darkness. They hide behind the major motion films, and mould our little world, in nature and in all of its destruction. Furthermore, they create a need within you, to need them, immerse yourself in every book. To create stories, no one has the ability to express. But understand unconditionally that we are flawed, imperfected beings that don’t understand life in all of its complexity. And to relate with someone, connect without having to physically touch, is something bittersweet leaving you with awe that escapes your breath after that last page, every time.