Like a machine
It’s like being in a factory, with machines delivering an endless supply of words, to be distributed to many people.
Sadly, that’s how I see it. I see myself as a machine, a robot continuously working, too numb for physical or mental exhaustion.
Gone are the days when I write for my own pleasure, when writing is a luxury allowed by free time or a surge of emotion. Now, writing is just a source of money, a way that others conveniently use to convey a message. I am the medium, the bridge, you may call it.
Writing is not as simple as it seems. You can’t just write whatever you want. You have to think carefully, to weave thoughts into a thing of beauty. Some people have mastered the art. Some, like me, continue to struggle in the sea of words.
Words are like threads, woven in different formats and styles. Choosing the appropriate word is like a tailor choosing the colors to fit the clothing he wants to make. And picking the right texture is like choosing the desired weight of words. A word may be as common as cotton, or as soft and beautiful as rare silk. Perhaps it may be as comforting as wool, or as synthetic as nylon. You choose.
The way you choose words defines the “attitude” of things you want to say, as much as the type of thread in clothes. Thinking of the right one is difficult. When you say it, there’s no turning back, you can’t take back what you said. Because words, as much as we’re free to use them, harbor danger. The people who may hear or read them may not like the message, or worse, misinterpret it. So you have to be careful. There are words that weigh as much as you may hear, or as light as they seem.
I didn’t know some words ever existed until I began learning how to utilize them. Before, I just picked the words that I felt could describe what was in my mind, what I wanted to say, and how. Now, there are people saying how I should write, to fit their preference and rules, simply because I work for them.
It’s not easy to write. But like a tailor, I have to run a machine, my mind, in order to create something. Writing for work is like being in a factory: I’m like a machine, tailoring words mindlessly for others to consume.
Writing is as ragged as my mind now. I don’t know if my mind can still stand polishing after all the work I’m doing and have done. But I’d like to think that it’s just writing’s dark side. Writing is tiring, but I love it still.
I hope that as much as I’m learning how to find the words, this chore of being a machine, of being robotic, will change, too.
Joan, 20, is a PR writer.
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