Words. No one likes them better than I do. They fill the void of every writer, and try to express the ideas he has bottled up inside. They are sort of the proof of knowledge we have, isn’t it? I find being able to wield them a great privilege and a much welcomed burden. But as a tool for expressing emotions, I just find them inadequate, even in all their power. It’s the closest I feel to the person who says “Words cannot describe…” and is really torn up inside, hoping that his feelings and emotions, worries and cares, are understood as they are. But in the end, they are hardly ever understood, or felt the way they are. So we make do with words. We make do with them, hoping that somehow most, if not all, our emotions are conveyed by them. I love words. I love how they try. I love how they work and rework themselves till somehow, a picture is painted; a picture which once seen by another, stir up the same emotions which we felt with ...