Words the Weapon...

I want to tell you a tale...a true recounting of a strange adventure that befell me just a few days since. A story so sublime, I suspect you may not believe, but by all I can lay my word upon, it is true...

I was attending a fair, called the Comedy, an exhibition of all the great discoveries that claimed to be able to delve into the depths of the human mind and challenge Life Itself (the greatest comedy of all). I was a sceptic, I freely admit, not one to be dazzled by all the splendour and show; but after wandering amongst the stands my attention was drawn to a small booth, dark and plain, a simple sign proclaiming 'Words the Weapon'. I entered; no spectacular demonstrator in cape and hat met me, but a plain-suited man who asked me to sit at a plain wooden table, pen and paper placed at my fingers. "Do you wish a demonstration?" he asked. I nodded my approval, and he began to speak.

He asked me, first, to remember. The child I had once been, being lost, disgraced, misunderstood. The adolescent overwhelmed by discoveries and experiences of life. The fear and joy and grief of love, of loss, of nothing, and of everything. He asked me, then, to ponder some philosophical points, which he posed in such a serious manner that I began to question myself and my life and my future. He spoke, I listened; I thought, and a great wave of emotion began to engulf me, tides of happiness and depression and confusion and exhilaration swirling about me, tugging at me, fighting for me as I struggled not to be drowned.

And as I fought I looked down to my body, contorting under the control of my tormented mind, and saw that I had somehow been injured, that all over me my skin was opening as if it were cut - and words were pouring from the wounds, running unchecked, seemingly draining all that was pure and honest from me, drenching my clothing with a sweaty, salty fluid. I cried out, and the man's voice came clearly to me, demanding that I pick up the pen at my fingertips.

I did so, and felt all the emotions and words pouring over me begin to channel into the shaft. I gasped as a torrent began to flow uncontrolled from the nib - all my thoughts and dreams and fears and desires concentrated into this one place - I was terrified they would escape and be lost to me forever, for where could they go? Each second, more and more of my lifeblood was becoming ink: in a frenzy I grabbed at a sheet of paper and tried to staunch the flow of words against the page.

The words seeped quickly into the paper, randomly blotting against and over each other. As this strange ink stained the pages, the waves still buffeting at me began to recede. My confusion began to subside; I was physically and mentally exhausted, but felt a certain peace steal over me. I wiped the paper over the last few drops of thought upon me, becoming nervously aware that the room was silent and still. The suited man was watching me, but he never uttered a sound as I gathered my stained pages and hurried out.

I can't tell you exactly what is on those pages. It is too strange, too perfect, too truthful, and too personal to share with anybody - often, I feel that I should not be exposed to such depths of my own being that the pages reveal. It is almost as if my soul and spirit had climbed out of my body and allowed a portrait to be painted by some masterful hand...

But I can tell you now I am a believer. Not in splendour and show, but in the power of the simple things: that answers to Life (the greatest comedy of them all) are inside everyone if you can only learn to set them free. For me, it was words the weapon; words also the wound, and words the cure. Perfection from the pain...and a lesson learned that I will never, can never, forget.

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