Words. They hold so much power. They can both wound and heal. Create and destroy. They can be ugly, mean and menacing. But they can also be elegant, enchanting. They can be… beautiful. I spend most of my days writing words on paper, creating characters, sceneries and stories. I love words for how they help me express myself, and how they convey meanings and messages. They can be beautiful by themselves, as combinations of letters, or have meanings that make them beautiful. Both are equally wonderful ways to be beautiful. I love words for their beauty.

You, however, do not. You think words are just characters on a paper, or on a screen. To you, words are just characters in a code. And that’s the main way we differ, you and I. You tend to think my head’s too high in the clouds, and that I’m speaking absolute nonsense. Once again, you say I’m not being productive. And that hurts me. You barge into my creative space, my safe haven, seeing that I use my time to create something, and you want to destroy it. You want to destroy the beauty that I see before me. Your words hurt. They cut deep. But you don’t realise it.

And I know that about you very well. Your world has always been in numbers. Cold, hard sciences as you would say. You see beauty in calculations. Which, of course, are beautiful in their own way. It is just not the kind of beauty that I wish to spend my days with. I can appreciate the beauty that numbers hold, but they’re just not for me. Words and numbers aren’t mortal enemies. They can coexist in peace and create even more beauty. And even though I try to explain this to you, you don’t understand me. For you, it’s one or the other. They can’t both be beautiful in your eyes. You see everything in black and white, and you think I only see colour. And you don’t see the beauty that I see. Because you don’t want to.

But I want to explain. I want to help you see. I want to explain how I see the world of words. Yes, you can just look up a list of the most beautiful words in each language, but what does that mean? You roll your eyes, but that will not stop me. So I continue. These lists compile words that have beautiful meanings, like ‘love’ or ‘cherish’, but also words that are both beautiful as words themselves and in their meanings, like ‘epiphany’ or ‘felicity’. Of course, some words are also beautiful as they are, without their meanings, like ‘solitude’ and ‘languor’. Both of these words have sorrowful meanings, but as words they are still beautiful. Now, I’m not saying that sorrow cannot be beautiful. But for many, it isn’t. Like, to me, there is something so profoundly elegant in the word ‘solitude’. You nod your head in agreement, but I know that you still don’t understand what I truly mean.

Some words, in my opinion, aren’t as beautiful as the examples I gave you. A word that I found on one of these lists is ‘tryst’, which is defined as a meeting between lovers in a quiet, secret place. But I don’t like the word ‘tryst’. I don’t like the way it looks or sounds. I can see that the meaning is beautiful, but I do not see the same beauty in the word itself. Such a delicate thing needs more elegance, more… love? You’re thinking. You’re clearly intrigued. But there’s still doubt in your eyes. What is this love, you ask. How can a word be filled with more love?

That depends on the person, as much as I hate to say it. You once again roll your eyes at my answer, though this time with a smile on your face. That gives me hope, so I continue. Every word, even those one might find ugly, are beautiful to some. Same thing goes for the word ‘tryst’, and each person’s own definition of ‘love’. I personally feel like ‘tryst’ is too strong in the way it’s formed. It needs to be softer. It needs to feel like a quiet meeting between to lovers, a secret that should be barely above a whisper. And to me, the word ‘tryst’ does not match that description. There are, and will always be people who disagree, but that cannot be helped.

We all differ, not just you and I. What we find beautiful is so personal to us and is a constantly evolving process. I’ve only recently discovered the beauty of the word ‘no’, for instance. It is a simple word. An easy word, one might think, but in reality it isn’t. Not for me, at least. That’s why it’s so beautiful. It takes courage to say ‘no’, it takes empathy to understand why such a word would be uttered. And that’s exactly why it’s such a beautiful word. That may change in the future, but I can only guess as to what the future may bring to me.

Do you get it now?