A Brand New Story

Edited by - Sanyam Garg


It’s so strange that something which came so easily to you is missing from your life now. You, in your worst nightmare couldn't think that its absence would hurt so much.

It hollows you from within. It’s not like you took it for granted when you had it, but you never actually realized the depth of the solace that was brought along, something so powerful that you more or less stitch your world around it.

In my case, what I am missing right now is words, the smallest elements that can be uttered in isolation. My ability of deciphering my own scattered thoughts and webbing them in unison, is now missing.

Words play a weird role in my life, when I had them, they bedazzled me. I’d stagger. When I don’t have them, my life kind of reveals it’s tenebrosity.

Every now and then I feel that they’ll come back to me, that they’ll find their way but sometimes I can see them going farther away.

Every day I struggle in the absence of them.

I am a ruler who has been overthrown, my kingdom has been taken away from me, and I am being held a prisoner, in my own dungeons, in my own chains, amongst my own people.

As much as I try, I cannot escape; For, I am powerless. My power lies in my words, just like a Knight’s power lies in his sword. My weapon being words and the Knight’s, a sword. Both of these weapons can cut through, both of these are sharp.

My treasury of words is not the grandest in the world, but it’s precious to me for I built it with my own hands. Every single day, I collected my words; Some were given to me by my Parents, some were given to me by my friends. Some were given by William Blake and some by Sylvia Plath.

Words help you contemplate your feelings, words help you keep yourself in check. It’s like that every word you put together to make a sentence itches to tell you something about yourself. Your words cry out to you, take you so many levels down deep within yourself and leave you confounded with this profundity of your own soul.

Over the years, I carried them with me, they’d present themselves whenever I was in need of them, even when I wasn’t. They came naturally to me, they stayed with me through thick and thin. I would write when upset and I would write when I was happy. It’s like I kept a record of my life as I grew up.

I am lost without my words, it feels like I am walking in dark woods and my flaming torch just burnt out. I know there’s a long way ahead of me but I am so afraid of the darkness around me, without my torch, I have lost my sense of direction. They say writing is the best way to feel time. Framing words is an art, works of art can be stolen, Art itself cannot be stolen. I like to believe that my words have not been stolen from me, rather they are strolling around and maybe hiding behind the trees and enjoying the slow breeze and that one day when I really need them they’ll gather around my window and pop in one by one only to find their way back to me.


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