words

words

estefaaano_writes

...

Tonight, in the quiet hours before dawn, I watch my fingers glide across the keyboard.

Click. Tap. Every single keystroke is a ripple of consciousness transforming into meaning.

The tea beside me is beginning to grow cold, forgotten in the rush of words that pour forth like rain on parched earth. 

I've often wondered why I write. Why do any of us write?

Simple questions. Complex answers. 

Tonight, as streetlights cast long shadows through my window, I come to a thought: I am becoming less solid with each word I type. My memories crystallize into metaphors, my heartbeats into line breaks, my fears into character flaws that others might recognize in themselves.

Yesterday, a beautiful stranger told me they had cried reading something I wrote. Just words on a page. Yet to her, it was something more. "It was like you reached into my head," they said, "and pulled out exactly what I could never explain." In that moment, I felt myself dissolve a little more, pieces of my consciousness scattered like seeds in their mind, taking root in soil I would never see.

Is this not a kind of immortality? 

Not the grand immortality of marble statues and history books, but something more intimate.

Something that breathes.

Something that grows.

A fair persistence in the neural pathways of others. My joys become their joys, my sorrows their sorrows, and my questions, their midnight contemplations. We merge. We separate. We find ourselves in each other's words.

The sun rises now, and I watch my hand against the growing light. Dawn creeps in. Shadows retreat. Morning unveils its secrets.

Is it more transparent than it was yesterday? 

Am I becoming less flesh and more prose with each passing day?

Fading.

Transforming.

Becoming.

Last night, I wrote until three. My fingers trembled over the keys, exhausted. But when a sentence finally broke through, clean and true as spring water, my whole body hummed with recognition. Words came. Then more words. Then flood.

Perhaps this is what we were meant for all along.

To transform the tangible gravity of our lives into something weightless, universal, free to float between minds like dandelion seeds on summer wind.

The cursor blinks, patient and eternal. I place my fingers back on the keys and continue my slow, wonderful dissolution into words.

And isn't this the greatest paradox of writing? 

That in losing ourselves, we find it multiplied. 

Each reader who understands becomes a mirror, reflecting back not just our words but the spaces between them, the silences we didn't know we'd written. Sometimes I wonder if language itself is just an elaborate constellation we've drawn between stars of meaning, and if each word is a point of light connecting us across the dark matter of human experience.

I think of Borges and his infinite library, of Calvino's invisible cities that exist only in description. Perhaps we writers are not creators at all, but cartographers outlining the topology of consciousness. Every bit of sentence is a contour line we use to mark the elevation of thought, each and every paragraph was a territory of possibility. We chart the grounds of dreams and memories, of "might-have-beens" and "never-weres", until the map becomes indistinguishable from the territory it describes.

Time bends differently here at my desk.

Minutes stretch like taffy when wrestling with a reluctant phrase, then collapse into nothing when the words flow true. Three hours passed last night in what felt like minutes. I looked up from a paragraph about fallen leaves to find rain scratching at my window. I've lost whole days to this peculiar temporality of writing, surfacing dazed and wondering if I've been spinning words or if the words have been spinning me.

The morning light grows stronger now, painting the walls in watercolor washes of pink and gold. Soon the world will wake, and its cacophony will try to drown out these delicate threads of thought. 

But something has changed, the boundary between self and sentence has grown permeable. I am becoming a library of sensations, a chronicle of breath and bone, transforming the ephemeral moment into permanent ink.

Is this not the closest we come to divine creation? 

Not in building monuments or machines, but in transmuting the base metals of our experiences morph into elements of shared understanding. Every single word we write is an act of transmutation, turning the lead of individual experience into something precious and universal.

The tea has gone completely cold now, and I barely noticed.

Fourth cup today. Each cup was a marker of time's passage, rings in the bottom of ceramic telling stories like tree rings. I am too busy disappearing into the page. Word by word. Thought by thought. Until all that remains is the swing of keys, the flow of consciousness into text, and the hope that somewhere, someone will read these words and recognize a piece of themselves they didn't know needed finding.