We Write

Letters to words to sentences to paragraphs to infinity.
It’s odd.
A grey machine of communication,
If at all.
A blank canvas
Held together
With alphabets, and grammar, and, syntax, and will
And painted with images and imagination
That shift the joints of its old structure,
Is odder.
Why does nobody talk about the sentience of it?

Why the alphabets decided to sit like they do,
Claiming and rejecting thrones like wine
In a tired party
Where the lords and ladies despise their formal smile,
But smile.
Or like the statues in chess
All prim and proper and stoney,

We feel invincible
Because we play with letters
And their vibrant stories
Marked with the drama of love,
The morbidity of death
And the serene history of a pristine English afternoon.
Revolutions rise and fall behind every bend of the alphabet
And we write, as if we write because we do….

– Shakya


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