Homage to my First Love

13 Mar

If I am going to talk about love, I have to take it back to where the feeling first originated. Let’s put this whole show in reverse and let me fill you in on my first love…. Words.  As a young child, I savoured books like they came laced in candy cane. My first affair was with the public library that had instituted a reading rewards program over the summer and every second day I was taking out a stack of new treats.


 When I entered grade 5 I began reading William Shakespeare’s plays. I was engrossed with the romantic language and saddened by the hopeless passion of Romeo and Juliet. At this time I began filling notebooks with painfully horrible little girl romantic poetry. With stars in my eyes and a song in my heart I penned letters and poetry to my far off Romeo who had to exist somewhere. Silly me, I didn’t even acknowledge that I had found love right there. I just didn’t read inbetween the lines.

As I made my abrupt transition into the angst of my teenage years Words chose to evolve with me rather than leave me behind. Words held my hand foolishly crying out, “a new adventure with new phrases and follies to be chronicled!”

Poor, poor, poor delusional faithful Words, I led you into the blackest period of our relationship. This was an era when love subsided and anger and tears prevailed. Words became my crutch through these ill-fated times and I wrote about my social awkwardness, distaste for capitalist pigs, and how much I really didn’t care about fitting in. Reading the feverishly scrawled notes now, I know that I cared too much.

When I became pregnant with my son, Words held my hand as I broke it to my Father that his drop out daughter was single and with child.

Words told me, “focus on the moment, you can use this to create something beautiful”.

Words was always positive like that.

I sat in the backyard listening to the neighbours children discuss the fortitude of sandals. Just a couple of wooden planks separated the most intense conversation of my life and the innocence of childhood. Words did not abandon me in my heightened moment of vulnerability, I actually wrote up until my Fathers looming presence forced me to answer to it. I depended a lot on the power of Words to carry me through my darkest of times.

When my son was born, I had a new love and it came with ten fingers, ten toes, and amazingly chubby cheeks. Trusty Words faded into the background and after months of sleepless nights and countless burp cloths, I forgot about our deep enduring relationship. My son became my life and he did what only Words did… he made sense of it. However, that’s another love story that deserves a story of its own.

After two years passed I had met with Words a scarce dozen times or so and I became aware of our separation. I began to reminisce on the great times we had, and the beauty that became of our being together. I wanted to return to Words and have an all-night love making session; producing pages upon pages of euphoric sentences. I must admit that it took a while to reunite with words because I was scared that Words would act like a scorned lover and cringe at the touch of my pen. I was terrified that Words had left me.

It took time, patience, and understanding but I made it back into Words good graces. We now have a smoothly functioning relationship. Between me and you, Words can be a bit demanding. I will have to awake in the middle of the night and appease Words’ hunger, or talk about our latest endeavour, and write and rewrite until it’s satisfied with our love children. It’s a very time consuming relationship that needs nurturing but it is all worth it. Who doesn’t want to make something beautiful?

One thing has been clear to me though, what ever we produce together doesn’t belong to me. I can’t take credit for being allowed to be a part of the production of something that strike emotion in another. These lines have been accumulating my entire lifetime, through interactions with others, through love experienced, hate endured, and tears spent. Each page is a recycled moment that Words has became the conductor for so that I can communicate them, and I am thankful for that. These words have never belonged to me, and now, these words are yours.

Words, I’ll never leave you again.

Sealed with love,


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

The Afroist

Here. Where you have normalised violence, coloniality, slavery- the utter destruction of the other. I am still breathing.

Sweta Ojha

A Personified Narrative : Defying Reality. Sketching Imageries.

The Naga

Critical. Crazy. Catastrophic.

420 ways to reach the sun

let the conversation begin.


I was born not knowing and have only little time to change that here and there

Moontime Warrior

Fearless Philosophizing, Embodied Resistance (by Erica Violet Lee)

Outrageous & Curvaceous

An Eccentric Account of a Journey to Wellness

%d bloggers like this: