“Write,” they tell me.
“But I don’t know how,” I reply. I have been confused lately, always over thinking about my crappy writing style.
“Just… write. Don’t be afraid to mess up,” they look at me with curious eyes, unable to determine the frequencies my mouth projects. They don’t seem to get me. “Frustrated? Write. Happy? Write. Not feeling like writing at the moment? Just write. In writing, there’s no good or bad. There’s no right or wrong. They can’t judge you because of what you like to write on that paper. We all have our own sides of mediocrity. Whether they give a damn about you or not, don’t stop expressing yourself by writing. The world doesn’t stop for them.”
I felt a hand hold mine. It pulls me up and out into this labyrinth. Now I can see where I used to be. Dark and lumpy, the stars around the maze get dimmer every second. I watch the sky fold into prickles of dust until it gets out of my sight. The hand continuously holds me. And then I look up.
It’s them. I look deep into their soul and I find my heart there. Their bodies are formed intricately, and with a delicate touch they can give you wings and make you fly. That’s what they did to me.
“What are your names?” I ask.
They look at me with complete genuineness. “We only have one,”
“Then what is it?” My eyes fill with solace. I think I’m going to burst. Peace, warmth, tranquility. That’s what I feel. I will finally find out the name of my saviors.
“Words.” they reply.
(artwork by Izza Thapa)