The Point of Illiteracy

Language was a finely tuned instrument for me. I remember writing freely with my right hand which leads to the molding of a new work; a new story, a new poem, etc. It was, more or less, something as natural to me as breathing. I used my words and carefully spun them into an intricate web. They aimed to capture the eyes of the people reading, to show them a world so different from our own, and maybe even to explain things that never really existed.

But as I progress and I learn more about this world , I start to loose my footing in this web that I made. They start to loose stickiness. I brush off each slip with a thought, “Maybe I was just distracted”.

It didn’t take long. News of murders, robberies, and other crimes start to flood my mind. They cloud my brain and block me out from  my own right hand. It started so subtle, as if they didn’t want the effect of the world to completely swallow me yet. It burned my fingers and ate out my own words. I fell. I fell from my web and started plummeting to my own death.

It was then, did I force the words out of me like a final goodbye. I burst out how the world was cruel, how the world was imperfect, and how I should keep falling into this pit.

I was inches from the bottom when I stopped. Why? My leg was caught up with the final thread. I dangled there, almost threatening myself to cut it off, but then I climbed up. I climbed up and saw the world how it really is. It is neither good, nor bad. It is a mix of the both. I climbed the thread and saw a new perspective of everything. I saw it how it really is. It was no longer just a fantasy, nor just a tragedy. It was a mix of both.


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