Word du jour: emacity

I've always wondered why this word is extremely similar with emaciated, which represents the complete opposite side of the spectrum. Here's the lexicon.

Of course everyone knows that the word emaciated means extremely weakened or thin, which probably stemmed from not spending money. Yeah, English is kinda weird.

This is a belated blog post, which was supposed to be published yesterday. Unfortunately, I was out camping. Yeah summah.

Crisp letters on yellow pages

Books. People never really stop loving books. Fifty-first century. By now you've got holovids, direct-to-brain downloads, fiction mist. But you need the smell. The smell of books, Donna. Deep breath! 

That's from a TV show I watch about a time traveller (Hint: he's a Doctor). He was commenting on the persistence of books even in a very advanced civilization like the 51st century. And indeed, it rings true even until today. Nothing better represents the repertoire of the human experience as much as black ink sharply embossed onto white paper.

I just finished reading The Hunger Games trilogy and I should say, it was a very excellent read. The ending left on a very bittersweet note, with me undecided as to be happy or sad for the character. You see, the protagonist of the novel, 16-year-old Katniss Everdeen, is being contested with the love of two men, each of who has a significant impact in her life.

In the end, he has to choose one. And she did. But my point here is not to glorify the work of the author but to... marvel on how the written word can as easily move a person into feeling such emotions, how black ink sharply embossed onto gritty paper can evoke sympathy or hate or love or happiness.

In this age of increasingly technological advances, people getting less and less attention spans are slowly deviating from the methodical patience, the gradual build-up of a book's plot. Within its pages, we establish a link with the characters, we see what they see, and feel what they feel.

Through the written word, we do not just simply gloss our eyes over black ink sharply embossed onto crisp paper, but we become part of the story, we see their lives unfold; their lives exist in our hands as we turn the pages and learn more about them.

It's this... deep connection that we have with a book's characters that cannot be done in any other form of media. While music is medicine for the soul and movies are an escape from reality, books are the doorways to another world. Whether it be a post-apocalyptic Earth governed by a Capitol or a Time Lord who merrily skips all throughout time and space, there's no adventure more exciting than reading from black ink sharply embossed in smooth paper.

We read, then we sympathize with the characters. Then we begin to read more, as our sense of adventure is piqued, until we come to a single book that just strikes us the most. We then read it over and over, trying to absorb every little detail in this one little book that is our all-time favorite. This book which we grew fond of shapes our perception of life in some way. We realize that their stories persist and resonate in the real world, and the black ink sharply embossed onto yellow paper becomes our life's beacon.

I close Mockingjay with a faint smile on my face, and grab the next book on my shelf. Another adventure awaits, as I flip through the first chapter.

Writer's block

You see, I'm a Scorpio. Just like Picasso or da Vinci, I never finish most of the work I start, just like this blog.

I once dreamt that I would be rich and famous, at least in the blogosphere. So the First Movement has begun. It was supposed to be a dramatic entrada, the first wave of a raging surge of emotions and feeling expressed and captured in free-flowing lines of prose.

But then things changed. Just like the tides, my literary excursions ebbed into the deepest confines of my mind. I was once again trapped, lost in words wanting to come out but couldn't be expressed. I always have a concept blossoming somewhere in my mind, but when I face the intimidation brought by the blinking cursor in front of me, my mind ends up at a loss for words. A loss for words! How excruciatingly forlorn!

My life's work distanced me from the thing I like most, writing. Translating my unknown thoughts into known patterns, combinations of glyphs that invoke a common definition to people who recognize it. And being the writer I am, I go as far as extending the mere common word into something more provocative, more daring, more passionate. I like using big words, the way they slush, swirl, and hang around, waiting to be used, waiting to be proof of impeccable eloquence in the language.

I keep a journal. Used to, but then people mocked me. They mocked my notebook, my ability to translate hidden thoughts into spoken words, to express the world as I perceive it, as I feel it. They don't want me to express myself, about how I see the world through my dismal, despicable eyes. I thought that was how the world works; they're satisfied living in their memory, of putting their thoughts in their mind, never getting out, never getting expressed.

I may have some things that I have to keep to myself, but my writing must not falter. I must continue to write, on and on, until all words have faded out of existence, until my mind stops, until my soul wavers. Not unless I am dead shall I stop using big words. The world is my viewpoint, and my mind is the blueprint. A blueprint to build, not a physical entity, but a personalized account of my own existence, a narrative of my being. With my mind as a blueprint and the power of words as my medium, I shall create a world, a world made entirely out of my own view, the real world as I see it through my eyes.

I am a writer, a builder of worlds, the master of linguistic expression. Forsooth, I am a writer. I have the power to distort or enhance a person's world view. I can bring forth harmonic truth or chaotic lies. I am a writer. And the world is my viewpoint.