Those words. Witty, clever, impeccable words. A sequel of these, one following the other like a child following her mother, like the black and white notes of a sonata, like a dancer doing her moves in a ballet, swings, mystifies, elates. Those words. They play with each other, dance with each other, swing one another, throw one another, eventually reverting back to the embrace from a free fall. They complement and they contradict. Like lovers. Those words, engulfing and entrenching their disparate meanings, making a novice author give an incredulous sigh at the beauty of their unison after reading them. A train made of different blocks. “How can they be so beautiful?”
And those words. That hurt. Because you cannot attain that impeccability yourself. The dearth of either thought, or eloquence, or words themselves. Like that novice author, who tries to pen down his version of his mind, slowly failing to achieve it, letting go of its fragments. One piece of paper after another, inks spilled and scribbled, all dumped. Mind failing to personify itself, incarnate itself. In words. Through words. That hurt. May be it is more than inscribing his mind. May be it is more than a form of art.
But words. Still you create. Out of either desire or disgust. The gap between the influence and the ability, between the pursuit and the product, becomes too trivial. Because you and your words, like the creator and the creation, God and the universe, man and matter, are bonded. As the craft and the craftsman are the same. And this epiphany of some sorts is when you triumph. Through words.
“To banish imperfection is to destroy expression, to check exertion, to paralyze vitality.” ― John Ruskin, The Stones of Venice