I WANT TO BE A WORDSMITH.

There are people who write and there are those who are wordsmiths. They write using flowery phrases with seamless segue and you never want to let go of what you are reading because it has some form of satisfaction to you as a reader because the word magician bossomly engages all the five senses subtly only a reader feels the vibe.

Being a wordsmith is not only an art, a talent and a technical skill, it also comes with a following or a retinue that earnestly waits. When you pen something down, everyone in his right sense is caught by the insane creativity and imagination and might even wonder how you did it.

Writing is a technique that spans ages. It involves intrigue, imagination, discourse and conviction. Just to mention but a few. With time it has evolved and will continue undergoing mutation.

That I have failed in my ambitions to be a wordsmith is not a contestable half truth or falsification. I only read more at the expense of writing quality mind boggling and invigorating art pieces that probably should edutaint. It is like am deviating from the norm that I had created when I challenged myself to be a wordsmith which tautologically has been kind of a personal missive. When down, I open and savour the contents like it was belonging to another being.

It's like being a journo gives one the best prelude into being an effective and congenial scribe. Especially print journos who are not afraid to play around with words and manipulate our thought process so that we have this illusion of their brilliantly nurtured inteligencia as they be paper chasing.

Some of the most intelligent people are known to have been great writers and readers and alas, thinkers. The likes of Albert Einstein, Shakespeare and Legion of other literary folks whose works we revere and apply to our day to day lives. As for Einstein his goose could have been cooked had he not made it to the Americas because Goebbels and the indefatigable Hitler would have been hot in pursuit of his obvious Jewish heritage. I am currently reading a Walter Isaacson biography of the world acclaimed genius in both science and art. Albert Einstein.

As I am scripting this piece of gibbery, I am lethargic and having obtunded reflexes because I am not sately inspired to equivocally do it right. Am still reeling from the aversión of mediocrity earlier on displayed by the former quandary that befell yours truly in a panel of uncreative experts who I fell like challenging but owing to my premiere, I thought better naught. Wish I could have done better or come out more brisk. Like having that sonorous baritone that gives me an edge to out manoeuvre peers at the blink of an eye leaving them wide agape. Or that height that transcends the rest to scuttle those vertically challenged into submission and petrifaction amid laxity in opening the mouth to vex about my posture. Height wise I think I am tad challenged. I yearn to be taller though.

Sometimes I usually want to be that beggar who rides on an unbridled horseback like a trained jockey full of illusory societal aspirations. Horses were for the prototypical bourgeois who used them as a transit contrivance in medieval times. Few laymen had the auspicious audacity to have one unless they were cascading the societal vertical ladder to supremacy. Their economic supresión having been a set back in their aspirations left most to be admirers of the draught beast mostly seen during occasional visits to jockey clubs to watch as the connoisseurs displayed their expertise amid cheers and ululations from the electrified crowd.

As a pragmatic individual, I always wish that writing was my Joie de vivre. Writing in 3D and capturing imagery like reading a Sydney Sheldon novel or listening to a romantic ballad that palpitaciones the intrinsic muscles of the heart to lam with uncondensating rapidity synonymous to how Hezekiah felt upon addition of fifteen more earthly years on the verge of his extinction from the vicissitudes of planet earth.

I am an average writer. I have the mettle even though the going is pique for reasons this blog can't explain. Yenning I am to burst from the cocoons of bondage and entrapment so as to explore the greater ability of immortality in the art of scripting.

Sometimes I make sense; otherwise I am a nonsensical writer. Many think I subterfuge yet I am always as realistic as required of me. Or is it that I have adopted a witty charm of dismantling the listeners of my plebeian anecdotes that most have ultimately thought of as foolish owing to my usual good first impression since am bespectacled and wear this big plastic rimmed glasses that give me the flair of a very intelligent scholar.

Many a times some people have told me about my boorish nature and acting puerile. I was once an actor, sometimes am forced to be callous. Damn, even primary school kids intimated the same because I know how to offend especially the emotional right side of their brain when provoked. I can't beat about the bush. Most of those who tell me so are mostly obtuse and inanely thick and as such, I usually try to make them feel at home because it is sanctimonious to be a pious snob when dealing with a person whom you view as a nincompoop.

As I work towards circumventing the barriers of making a wordsmith. My motive is to deride my critics and naysayers into a delectable submission. I want to dismantle their genial idiosyncratic avalanche of not exercising self-effacement at my own bauble alter of penmanship. To subdue their comfort at my behest into thinking their posse are malingering when in reality they are switching ground because they have no more cognate juxtaposition with their royalty.

I might suffer from disdain and being disheveled. But my zeal for a rendezvous is unmatched. That which is wholly defined by a petulant opprobrium and tenets of oblique harangue which is essentially undoubted since its premised by ostentatious misogamy of riley. Frivolously propagated by an evolving decapitation of our morality and the ethical premia we have failed to protect resulting in abrogation of our fragile traditions inherent from our yore folks.

Yet I despise the horrendous itinerary of being held hostage by a barrage of lexical argot intended to embody simple and tacit apprehensive comprehension in my endeavour of construal of my mundane nomenclature of being a deprived quintessentially skillful writer with unmatched renaissance into a new dawn.

Thankfully, the most beautiful thinks in the world are not seen but felt by the heart. I may be a bull in China shop. Because my aversion therapies of countenance buoyed by simplicity have been irrelevant so far. Partly I would never make a difference but slouching on a couch making meaning out of words is something I have to. The ado and reflexes are not as heated. They remain a precursor as I mirror on how best to ameliorate the music in my rhyme scheme.

I want to be that deus en machina who convolutes and gives headaches to the huffish scribes from their yolks of relishing the status quo devoid of being reprimanded. I am not casting aspersions. This is a deuce. Playing it safe and seldom shifting alliance with this innocuous artistry that borders on probity of candour.

SITUONANE.

[Photo Source: Openphoto]