Words – they tell so much but never enough. Shakespeare to Harper Lee, Wordsworth to Khaled Hosseini, words have been mercilessly used, and yet not been exhausted. It’s a tad eery, the way words work; boring knuckles deep, yet caressing like only a mother can. It’s a love hate relationship, words and us.

That’s the thing about words, they hurt. Unintentionally, but with the sole purpose of breaking you down to the lowest summit. Words are cruel, they can haunt you far enough to tire you, and trust me, there’s no escape.

Almost, such a melancholic word. Almost, the fact that we could have made it but didn’t. Almost, the things that should’ve happened but somehow failed to. Almost, the reminder that at the end of the day, we’re all failures. Because we almost won, but then?

Maybe, a word opening up to endless possibilities. Maybe this, maybe that. Maybe or maybe not. A word that has turned our lives into an oxymoron. Maybe, there’s a faint hope, even after all the bruising and mending, the slaughtering and mourning.

So you see, that’s how words work. They don’t just exist, they flow, they burst, they bleed. They make sure you know they’re there, even if you’re trying to run away. They make sure you remember them, even if it is painstaking to do so. They make sure you don’t lose them, even if a part of you dies everyday on hearing someone utter them.

The best worst thing about words is, they can never be erased, and rightly so. For what is life without words?

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