Passion for Verbosity

This morning was nothing but ordinary. I slept past my alarm and barely made it to work on time. This has been the habit for as long as I remember. I have come to acquire a lot of bad habits, yet the worst of them all has to be my passion for words. Yet worse, verbosity. Well spelt, pretentious, cynical and sesquipedalian terms are my favourites.

It all started in my early years, when I began exploring the magnificent world of books. I owe it all to my second grade teacher, who was always pushing my classmates and I to read. By the age of 9 I was probably Penguin Books' favourite customer; I had ordered almost every children's book by post, including an encyclopaedia.

At age 12 I had read each and every book at my school library - yes, Encyclopaedia Britannica included. That was my little secret.

My teenage years had to be the worst period of my life. But in my mind I was living in another world, with Jane Austen, William Blake and Louisa May Alcott. I was lost in the beautiful era of literature that was far from today's harsh reality and unstable life.

I found myself going back to books and words whenever I felt upset at my life. No matter what pulled me down, the words on a page would drift me far away from my world and transport me to an Eden of love, peace and tranquillity.

My obsession with literature began to grow with each poem and novel I read, and I took it a step further by starting to write my own poems and stories when I turned 14. My words were simple and my thoughts innocent. But as I grew older and became more and more exposed to the outside world, my life - and consequently my words - turned complicated.

Upon my graduation from school, I pursued a degree far from the ecstatic world of words and art: engineering. It wasn't much later that I realised I had taken the wrong path. Five and a half years later, I finally graduated with a degree in Journalism, but that was a mere coincidence. I'll save that story for later. Once again, I landed a job - and started a career - in a field far from my passion.

It's a little less than five years since my graduation, and it's a shame how I've come to forget the feeling of a book between my fingers and the nostalgic scent of an old book and its worn out pages.

I have turned into an ergo-maniac who no longer has time to enjoy the simplest pleasures in life. That is, to wake up early on a Friday or Saturday morning and enjoy a 'waffles and coffee breakfast' with a good book in hand and the serene rays of sun above. Today, my perfect weekend would be to spend all morning and afternoon in bed, making up for the long hours I worked on the weekdays.

I have quit writing altogether. Well, I still write emails and reports and reviews for work, but I can't remember the last time I jotted down my thoughts and feelings. I can't recall the last book I read or article I criticised.

I'm still passionate about words. I can't help but notice each and every orthographic error and anachronism for any written story, post, article, email or even label at a museum.

Today I have decided to start writing again. I shall pursue my verbosity and will continue to use pretentious, cynical and sesquipedalian terms.