They say the pen is mightier then the sword. And so it is, with the English language. It cuts through to the heart without shedding a drop of blood. Yet, as it sends you into the thick of the action, it can't quite pack the nuances in human emotions. It is swift, it is concise, it hits the bull's eye.
Perhaps too quickly. It is a stripped down language, hardly bringing with it the burdens of usage. It is like the rolling stone that collects no moss. Easily moving from one place to another without changing too much. It is light, it is unladen, it doesn't stop to carry what else you have to give it. It is carefree.
Or perhaps it is because I have already crafted my writing as such. Sharpening the arrowhead to shoot through any bull's eye that might stand in the way. Knowing not just to hit at the mark, but to pierce through it. And perhaps because of this I made my arrow not to be thick and clumsy. It has to be lean and deft.
Perhaps one too many times of resting the arrow on the crossbow, I have unknowingly left a resting mark that only this arrow fits. Any others, I miss my mark.
Perhaps. Maybe after all, in the English language, this was how it was meant to be.
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