I have this fascination, this addiction, this passion, this hatred, this frustration and this absolute necessity in my life. It takes the form of words; strings of vowels and consonants jiggling together in word-necklaces. These words fly through my head like birds trapped within a cage; frantically flapping their wings and looking to soar into the high skies. Yes, these words need to take flight. They need a little help from me; my mind has to structure them into ordered and logical sentences, or creative and imaginative ones. It doesn’t matter. They need to be released, or my mind becomes too filled with these whimsical winged-creatures looking for release.
I’m sure that everybody can relate to what I’m saying. Our thoughts are made up of words. Perhaps there are people who can silence those voices, but if you’re anything like me then that’s very hard. You see, I believe writers have a secret little storyteller inside of them. Something like a miniscule dwarf sitting on a toadstool, somewhere between the conscious and subconscious mind. He always has a book opened, perching precariously on his tiny knees and he never stops reading our loud. At least that is how I imagine it. For where does inspiration really come from?
We all have an innate need for stories. To exchange little snippets of what it means to be human. The exchange of stories is an act of healthy greediness: greedy for the millions of lives we will access only through words. Our imaginations are insatiable. They are tireless travelers who can span any time or place. The imagination has a fellow traveler and his name is Empathy. He travels barefoot and that means he’s always ready to step into somebody else’s shoes. If we take Empathy with us, we’ll always know how another person is feeling, so we’ll have an abundant emotional life. This is what stories are about; amplifying our life experience, through fiction or reality. The only way in which we do this is with words or art.
So whilst it may be fair to say that we love words for their capacity to tell stories, my passion goes way beyond that. I love the sound of words, their shapes and size and their the way they fit together like jigsaws. At around the age of eleven, I discovered foreign languages. I started by dipping a tentative toe into the very romantic French language, followed by a paddle in German. At the age of twenty-one I needed a full immersion, so I went to live in France. When I eventually climbed out of this immense sea, I went back to dry land. However, after very little time I realized that I felt bored with speaking just one language on a daily basis. It was time to travel to Spain, to dive into this feisty Latino sea and have a good swim (wearing armbands, of course). This is exactly what I did and ten years later, I’m still here. Speaking other languages makes you very appreciative of your own; the subtle nuances, the word plays and the idiomatic language. Nowadays speaking English is something of a treat for me and I relish the opportunity to do so. Language is power and language is freedom; it builds bridges and connects people of different lands and cultures. It is a secret weapon.
However, in spite of my love for words, there is one thing I’ve realized. There are moments in life when words are superfluous to communication. I remember when I first came to Spain, standing and watching a majestic and fiery sunset unfurling before my eyes, accompanied by a handsome stranger. I couldn’t speak his language and his English was very poor, yet somehow no words were necessary. Souls communicate in a different language and sometimes silence says it all.
Shiny Happy Me 