Lost Words

I have lost all the words and have no idea where to find them back again. They say, these modern critics, that the author died long ago, and every word that you think are his/her were gleaned from a matrix of time, canon and culture. And if all the words that were authored were never their own to begin with, was the author ever born? Or is the author an illusion, an idea or a ghost that we create in order to project the insanities we are too lazy and afraid of owning up to?

Look at me, pretending to understand literary theories when all I need is something to write about. And I look around, at the things people say and do around me, hoping to discern the invisible pattern that might shape itself into an idea, and an idea into a story that is my own, my original, and if I am lucky perhaps someone I love, or someone I've never met will tell me how my words, the words I chose seem to speak their thoughts. But the words seem elusive. Perhaps my brain has developed some strange defence towards the osmosis of words from the invisible socio-cultural matrix. If the author was a ghost to begin with, I wonder how one defines a writer who can''t write at all. An extended oxymoron, perhaps. A paradox. Or the dream of a dream that slips like water through one's fist on waking without even the remembrance of moisture.

And I do tea and breakfast and yoga and work and I smile and I talk and I walk and all the time all I can think is I do not exist, that I have ceased to be, and I fear that the words will never come again, for I know no tricks nor secret passwords that can open the magic casement from where the great heroes who you said were dead tamed and charmed their words. What if I am lost, forever? What if I never live again?

Image Source: artsvector – Pixabay.com / License: CC0 Public Domain