By Mir Umar
Raise your words, not your voice
It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder
As the uncertainty is striking the walls of peace, it’s really becoming hard to even breathe in this kind of atmosphere. Fear has shrouded human souls and the new atmosphere is yielded with ache of poison. Peace is lost. From our homes to our institutions, everything is in state of abjection. We are becoming slaves of our minds. No power can destroy the slavery of mind until you start breaking the fetters which have caged your ideas and thoughts. It takes a milestone to arise in this terrible environment where I search for hope in my words.
The words that tell a story of loss and grief, bleed from the mighty ink of pen, sprinkle new ideas and make an empty paper worthy.
Words are expressions of your thoughts and ideas. Surely, an idea can change a course of a nation when the words are admired. Words describe who you are and what you ought to be. But I tremble , as my words speak to me. It’s really an abyss to fear your own words. To tell a story is an easy task but when your words pierce the heart and makes you bleed intrinsically, then the story remains a mystery in itself.
Can words speak? Or, can you speak to words? These are strange questions and answer to these is a mystery in itself. But when the inside pain intensifies, the words speak to you at that time. When you see bloodshed’s, killings, massacres and then you write memoirs and at that time, you make the words bleed with your ink. At that time, these words gradually speak to you. Words tell the tale of pain, loss, grief and experiences of a nation in general and people in particular. Words have a voice, waiting for our senses to grow.
First, it was an easy task to begin with my words as i had not taken the words seriously. But, when the heart bleeds and words run from the blood of heart, one fears to write a single word because it can let my blood of heart soaked. The fire burning inside everyone has riddled us but only the test of fire makes a fine steel. Now, even a child’s eyes reflect pain and agony. People have different mediums to relieve their anger and pain, but I share my pain through my words which bleed in silence. My words share the same pain, same anger that is experienced by everyone. Now it’s becoming hard to feel the pain of words. They offer sacrifice on your order but I question, “How Long”?
The tales, stories tormented with scars find their medium in words which would echo in the corridors of power. Words become the messenger which travel through every heart and make their effect for what they had been sacrificed. Drawing images, giving color and making the words more intense quench the silence and fortify every person. The words share a common feeling of ‘being human’. That is what artistic minds do. They connect people with their art, writings and poems. They describe the pain more creatively. Words have power to share oneself pain. They serve as bullets for writers and become an odyssey for the poets.
Again, the question that hovers in my mind: “How Long”?
The answer lies in the words, and I say; until I am here, I will write the unwritten scars, wounds and tragedies; even my body and soul would be sacrificed, I will speak through my words….
—The author is a student of Literature .He can be reached at: email@example.com