Words

Words

I was lost. In the endless maze of questions – that led to more questions. The answers were nowhere to be found. There were no answers. Just more confusion. I played, I traveled, I fucked, I drank and then I wrote. I wrote something, I wrote nothing. I wrote a lot, I wrote a little. I wrote a little about a lot. Words that made no sense. Hateful words, words of love, obscene words, emotional words.

 Words were an outlet for pain. I found peace; of hitting the tennis ball with the sweet part of the racket; of a perfectly timed straight drive; that smooth jump shot – all net no ring. I love sports. I love writing. I wrote for sport. I wrote for myself. I fell in love with words; with stories; of women overcoming social barriers through rugby; of a mother juggling maternal responsibilities with professional tennis. Stories inspired me. Stories shocked me. The truth was out there in the form of used syringes in the bathrooms of the athletic stadium, five-o-clock shadows of the international ‘adolescent’ sportsmen, feet-touching of the fat politicians by the gold medalists. The truth was pain.

Pain was an outlet for words. Ugly words, written beautifully. Words written with hope and a genuine endeavor to bring about change; to distract me from my pain; to create room for new dialogue, better words, a fresh start. Another conversation; about the lamest of jokes; the dumbest thoughts; an incidence of no consequence to anyone but me; random bullshit – that’s what a conversation is made of. The beauty lies in the nonsense; that builds its way to the odd profound thought; pretentious wisdom beyond our years; philosophical life-talks; seemingly meaningful conversations; opinions on politics, life, love, women, their complexities – unfathomable. I still haven’t found the answers. But I don’t need them anymore.