leaveten's Diaryland Diary


the written word

I believe in literature. I believe in writing. I believe in the entity, the immortality and the destructive ability of words. I believe, when used properly and to their full ability, their unconscious prevalence can create more power than any weapon we can otherwise summon. I believe there is a greatness behind knowledge, and I believe knowledge is nearly unattainable without the written word. I believe their silence, chaos, atrocity, and constant vigilance is what human existence, as it is, thrives on. They are implemented, working longer and harder than anyone that employs them, to do what most dream of. They take over countries, manipulate thoughts, feelings, emotions, create a sense of hope, and just as easily take it away. They are the only non-physical aspect that unites humans, as a race, through their efforts in creating language. They control us, and if we try hard enough, if we truly open our minds and put in simply half the effort they do, and with a small stroke of luck, we control them.

I believe words are the only things that understand me. I believe we are both being suppressed by those around us, those with pull over what we can and can't do, to operate at less than our full ability. Words don't have a mind of their own, but if they did I wonder if they would let themselves be used and misused for so long. I wonder if they would approve of the actions of those who have gained so much through their competence, or if they would feel pity for those who lost just as much at their mercy, without their compliance. I wonder if they would feel trapped in the mouths of those who control them, and in the hearts of those who have been long effected by them.

I believe literature is a visual art because if every word doesn't create an image, one vivacious enough to unlock the event, thought, or sequence it means to describe, then the author has not done his job right, and the words have gone to waste.

I believe as a writer one must lose themselves in their art. A small yet sufficient piece of themselves must flow from their open mind, to the rhythm of their heart beat, to the blood pumping invariably in their veins, to the very core of their finger tips, to the edge of what must be a very abused pen, onto to the paper, leaving no trace but the written word, a few letters learned at ages too small to understand what they could possibly produce; and that word, whether it's exuberant as life in it's prime or as commonly ignored as the and, it's and but's, it must convey such meaning that the reader, the recipent of a portion of the writers soul, must appreciate them as the writer did, having given the piece a part of his only life, thus creating such an image they are displaced from their current reality to a new someplace they were intended to go, as dictated by the unknown author. Such an experience should last a lifetime, as the reader has just recieved, indirectly, a part of the writer.

12:39 am - 08-10-09


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