Words are all I have. The only thing I know. They are the healers I know, they are the weapons as well. I chose them, I use them. Sometimes to make you fall in love with me, sometimes to hurt you so badly that you bleed. The words I say are many. Some celebrate the death, while others mourn the life. But, all have a purpose. I give them the purpose. I want them to work as I wish. Me, their master. Me, their slave. With great tenderness I chose some words so that you forget your worries, while with ruthless fury I throw curses that give you fresher ones.
But these words are all I have. I have no intellect, but only words of wisdom. I have no hope, but words of motivation. I know no humor, wit is all I use. When I sleep, I think of which words my dreams would spell out for me that night. When I wake up, I long to find my word again.
I squeeze them out of the silences of my nights, i pick them up from clamour of the mobs.I read them from silent smiles, i see them in sunlight reflecting from your hair. When i talk to you, I read your mind, and then choose my words. I do that because I want you to be affected. I start with the subtle ones, using the silences and sighs as punctuations. Carefully chosen, so as to make a deeper impact. But if you fail to register or appreciate my words, I would grow louder and choicer with what I need to say. I pick the most ornamental of the words, weaving around you the perfect net. I add enough sadness in the joints so that you stay hooked. I add irony at which you may smile. I add every ingredient that i know you like. To make you stay for a moment longer.
But when I find that my words are losing the grip over you, I am left with no option but to turn foe. I yell with rage, I burn with retribution. After all, all this was for you. How could you ignore and be indifferent. I chose the words consciously. But I meant each one of it. I believed in every single word. With all my heart I gave emotion to them making them real. Just like magic. So I must do what I do. I must inflict upon you my final blow. I must attack with you the most hurtful weapon. Guilt. I put in all the melancholy I have ever known, I put all the sorrows I have heard around me. I make others' stories as mine, so that I can make you feel wretched. So that when you fall asleep in the night, all you can think is how bad you were to me.
And then you return. And I have words for that too. My words tell you that I have forgiven you, but hide that I have not forgotten anything. And for eternity my words play slaves to me. At my commands they make you fall for me, sometimes hate me. They make you laugh, and they make you feel miserable.
But I really don't know if the reality is different. If they have in fact captured me. If they control my emotions and intent. If they are actually ruling my imagination. If they use me to unleash themselves. Perhaps am indeed playing puppet in the story woven by the words. I would never be sure. But what I know is that you'll never love me. But I want you to love my words.
Because words are all I have.
