Discussions in office take different turns everyday and somehow compel to think about the conversation that just happened and then I often find myself reflecting on what everyone said, what I said. Yesterday was a very productive day, in the sense that I walked all the way (wherever i was walking) talking to myself, out loud, justifying that I’ve probably lost my head. But I came to beautiful conclusions. I’d like to share one of the pointers.
I’ve always had a weak spot for write ups, stories, poems, anything that can describe something that is regularly written about or very normal to the human eye, in a beautiful way. Words.
‘Sticks and stones may break the bones, but its the words that hurt the most.’ This is as true as life gets. Words can make or break things in no time, it can get someone to beam with a smile or leave them feeling empty. Its the way you use them, how carefully and in a way that is your own. I also realised that the same word may mean differently to people. My definition of rain might not be what you make of it. It might be an experience, a memory, a fact- something that’s exclusive to you.
I’ve been reading Virginia Woolf’s ‘A Room of One’s Own’ and the imagery is beautiful. She hasn’t shied away from some places mocking the crowd gatherings that used to take place at the time nor has she has left any leaf unturned to describe the landscapes around her. This is a small poem written by Tennyson that she included in the very initial pages:
“There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near’;
And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late’;
The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear’;
And the lily whispers, ‘I wait’. “