Of Writers and their Creativity
While trying to have some fun, this piece came knocking on my door the hard way. Don’t laugh at me before reading it, my dear reader!
The art of writing creatively, one can admit without hesitation, is beyond just putting some carefully-tailored words together, like caged birds in a nearby zoo. It's like sharing a portion of your soul, your innermost thoughts, your unsayable feelings, and anything in-between, with others who, oftentimes, care to give your ‘damn’ words a read while taking a walk here and there like a loner who feels homesick but finds his abode in the serenity of waters, the scent of flowers, and the delicacy of assorted fruits that abound in the nature.
Ride on, dear wordsmith!
Let your thoughts flow faster than river Nile in Egypt and river Benue in Nigeria.
Usually, a soldier goes to warland with gun but yours is a pen– a tool which, believably, is mightier than a sword.
You are a master of your imagined-universe of colors, vibes, flexibility, linguistics dexterity, oratory, stoicism, philosophy, artistic performances, wonders, mysteries, love, light, challenges and opportunities.
Never stop learning to grow like a rose, and like a farmer who never stops planting crops on his farmland in spite of various ins and outs.
You are like the wealth being sought day and night for your words are, jokes apart, priceless– just like a pinch of salty supports of one's esteemed mother when she cooks. You're the spokesperson of the voiceless.
You understand how to translate the piercing cries of the oppressed people, the lovable laughter of a happy lovebird, and the language of the new born baby who speaks volumes to his beloved parents.
You write, perhaps, to set a record for good and posterity, break the barriers which stand between destruction and construction. Your work continues to challenge some of the obsolete norms of yesteryears.
Your sense of humor is unmatched. You could be highly selective whenever you intend to be. You somewhat befriended solitude but that didn’t make you run away from your fears. You do face them without any regret and exasperation. In your stories, your reader finds the missing pieces of his own story.
Your citations are a therapeutic massage for the broken bones, the hope for the hopeless brethren, and the assurance of unspeakable courage for the depressed ones.
You'll see the world differently once in a while, this is because it's not your fault all alone: You don't seem to belong to the same universe as your eyes are, to put it succinctly, like a lady's dressing mirror which she keeps so dearly.
You embodied honesty, friendliness, clarity of ideation and, of course, romanticism.
Should you decide to take upon yourself the pain of penning down a love story or poem that speaks to the hearts of adults beyond the perimeters of their vicinities, scores of your readers would end up comparing you with William Shakespeare, William Wordsworth, Victor Hugo, Rumi, T.S. Elliot, Pablo Neruda and, I must admit, the list is endless!
You are uniquely made and you aren't the aforementioned writers whose name have since been registered in the sand of history. But, guess what? You are more than what you think you are.
If an architect draws a building plan then your words are the bricks of your world.
What else can I say about you, my dear master of iambic pentameter?
