Of all the boasts I make of being a writer, I must confess that I am struck speechless when I’m asked to tell a story. It isn’t easy stringing words together to make sense and is difficult still to make them appear . . . . . . Pretty. Because let’s be honest, we all want pretty words. And pretty words only. We want them to give our minds something just as pretty to imagine; for they are either grieving or causing grief. And we need to feed them with hope, that one day, it would be different, that we would have new purposes.
We need it all, we say; Pretty romcoms, pretty suicides, pretty deaths, pretty crimereports. Pretty words to dilute our reality checks, to make us perceive the miserable loop of reality as an endless roller coaster of happiness. But nobody ever attempts, do they? To make pretty words?
No. Nobody has time for that. We can only designate these pretty words to pretty people. The art of making them pretty and stringing them together is worthless. Words are our key to survival but we still won’t indulge in that art. And to be given the job of welding them together to give hope, though false, to countless minds yearning to smile without having a worry in the world, now that’s a tough task.
So excuse me if I can’t give you a story right away. Excuse me if I took a moment; many moments in fact, to collect all the pretty words possible to tell you a story that you want to hear. Excuse me for taking time to string together the reality that you live in which you refuse to look at with contentment.
I’m sorry. I am a story teller with words and it takes time to figure out which of them are pretty enough for you.