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The Thought of Words

The writer  

It was the words that came to me in free flow. Every sentence well articulated, well written. The words forming thoughts that I have never really understood. I wrote of love, hatred, anger, hunger, pain, regret; without truly knowing what it meant. People laughed, cried, smiled, smirked; on reading what I wrote. But my mother, she never understood. "Think," she'd say, "use your brain." I would be pushed a math paper toward me and would be asked to solve it. That was my life growing up. But words, words were my friends. They brought me pleasure.  

I had woken up to the smell of paper burning. There in my room my waste paper basket had been on fire. My mother, standing near it, in her night gown, tears flowing down her face, had been feeding the flames with papers from my desk: my stories, my poetry. The flames had licked them all, tasting my precious words before deciding to swallow them whole. I had watched them burn, and I had let out an inaudible scream.  

I stared outside the window of my 31st floor office. So much had changed since then, words still never escaped me when I wrote, I commanded them when I spoke. But I missed it, its little quirks when it came my way. I had "thought" as she had asked: engineer, post grad, manager. I had climbed to the top. I heard a knock on the door, my face was grim as I welcomed my employee in- I hadn't smiled since ages.  

The thinker  

It was the thoughts that came to me in free flow. Everything well thought of, well structured. The thoughts forming equations, that I enjoyed trying to solve. I thought of love, hatred, anger, hunger, pain, regret: knowing the truth that they held. People needed help, and I was always the best to them, knowing the depth of their problem. But my daughter she never understood the importance of thoughts. "Think," I'd say, "use your brain." I would push a math paper toward her and would ask her to solve it. That was very important, to learn to think. But words, words were her friends. They stood in the way of her success. How I had feared the words.    

I had woken up to this fear one morning. No one should be hindered by silly hobbies, on their road to success. I remembered the smell of paper burning. There in her room, I had set the waste paper basket on fire. I had cried so much, tears had been flowing in a torrent, down my face. I had been feeding the flames with papers from her desk long before she had woken up. The flames had licked them all, swallowing them one by one. I had watched them burn, and I had let out an inaudible laugh, my child would be successful.    

I stared outside the window of my bedroom. So much had changed since then, my daughter never visited me, my husband had passed away. I no longer commanded my thoughts. My thoughts had begun to deceive me. I missed it, its little quirks when it came my way. I had made her "think" as I had wanted; engineer, post grad, manager. She had climbed to the top. I heard a knock on the door, it was my home nurse with my daily dose. My face was taut and grim, I had hoped to welcome my daughter- I hadn't smiled since ages.  

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