this week’s writing assignment was to write about writing
Words words words
Consonants, syllables, vowels tangled and untangled to weave out the world. Magic, they are. Not just a conduit of magic’s using, but magic themselves. They make and create, paint and sculpt the horrible, beautiful world. Who wouldn’t want to wield such power as this?
Some supposed sage once said that the pen is mightier than the sword. But it is not the pen or the ink, not the grey graphite of the lead scratch scratching pencil or the scrub of the eraser. Not even the paper itself that is powerful. It is the words.
Words create the sword, create the warrior’s hand and heart that bear it, the wind that bears it away. Bears away the violence of the sword to other hands and hearts of other warriors. Words create the rain that comes unbidden and falls to wash it all clean again. It is words that form the golden ball and the lapis blue dome above, across which it races with copper and yellow flames, races as though life itself depended upon it.
Words form the soft dead leaves along the pathway, once jewel colored drifting dancing down, once green hands on the ends of slim fingers, slender branches, rough bark-wrapped trunks, far stretching thirsty roots. Once tightly wrapped inside the little acorn, rotting in the black earth, still wearing his jaunty cap. Yes, words even made that.
Words are fire and wind and water. Words are rock and sun and moon. Words are paint and canvas, song and singer, movement and dancer. Words are thundering waterfalls of power and my little fingers hold on the pencil for dear life as the rage and love and beauty pour out like blood from a wound, like blood giving life to a little one. All I do is hold on, for who wouldn’t want to wield such power as this?