A Hand - Full Of Words

Words.

They say words, sometimes, are hopelessly inadequate to account for our feelings. Incapable of testifying or stringing our thoughts. And yet, as incurable lovers of the alphabet, keepers of the craft; we almost never seem to be able to regulate the temptation of giving it at least that one shot.

One shot, may be, for those who incorrigibly believe our pens have talent. Or one shot, may be, even for those who relish tearing our words apart. One shot, may be, for those who wish their words looked as fine as ours. And lastly, but most importantly, one shot for those ridiculously restless hands.

Hands.

Hands full of words, that tremble, even throb until they get to dance spontaneously on that keyboard. Hands that get restive, insomniac, even crabby until they get to put pen to paper. Hands that do the most brilliant job in sorting us out in the head. Hands that make us smile, in spurts even cry. And calm us down like magic.

But of course, there are a fair few different kinds of hands. Hurt hands. Warm hands. Angry hands. Soft hands. Soothing hands. Searching hands. Strong hands. Long hands.

The key is pure and simple, though. You've just got to know which hand to pick. To get introduced to the many writers living inside you.

Writers.

But who precisely can be called writers then? Those who use their own special pens? Those who own magic thinking caps? Those who wolf down word salads for breakfast? Or carry English alphabets in their bags?

Honestly now, there's no rocket science involved. We writers, are just a bunch of loons, who could use up all the world's supply of paper and ink, and yet not quite be able to contain all of our thoughts. Most steadfast in our affection towards words, we don't know how to hold so many in such small hands. So we play with them. Drop some. Break them. And then put them together. Nurse them. Treat them. And finally, end up guarding them.

There are words, ideas, thoughts and pictures sailing all around our sea of writers. There are even times we come across a bunch of things and invariable say, 'Hey I wish that was me.' Or say,  'Only wish I'd done that, man.' But truth is, if you don't ever pick up that hand, chances are, you'll never be able to know if you really can.

So all you writers, with hands full of words. You know who you are.

So get out of your closets. Go knock yourselves out. Let those hands dance.

Because even if they turn out to be bad dancers.

It's OK.

It's alright.