“For each person there is a sentence – a series of words – which has the power to destroy them”. A quote that caught my eye. And that reinforces my opinion on the subject I like to call the infinite power of writers. We are a sensitive lot, we crafters of phrases. Our moods are eclectic and transient, we are restless beings who dive into the deepest darkness of hell, then re-emerge bruised and battered, but triumphantly bearing ‘a piece’. Pain is sharper for us, because we hang on to it, we flip it, squeeze it, reshape it, re-charge it. Yes, super-sensitive, our very pores are on alert, picking up a word, a gesture, even a thought. Indeed, people’s eyes can be read so clearly at times that we must take a few steps back. Because the impact can be overwhelming. Iknow what you’re thinking and I’m storing it. We are not talkers, we keep it to a necessary minimum in order to interact with society. We’re listeners, collectors of moods, sweepers of emotions, creators of parallel realities representing everything you are, but even more so. Somehow we can understand even the confusion in your mind and make perfect sense of it. Outsiders who get it, simply because we’re such. Sensitive we are, I was saying. Perhaps too much, I’ll admit, rudeness means a little more to us, it doesn’t casually slide off . It pounds on our chest, it grates on our brain, its weight ballooning as we consume it, rearticulate it and, well, put it on paper. We might even whisper thank you (through our unshed tears), but you’ll never hear it, as you dismiss the situation, whether consciously or not. So proud of the actors in our stories, so realistically depicted – the false friend, the opportunist colleague, the over-paid and self-important individual who doesn’t even see you as you pass right by their shadow, often with a polite smile on your expectant face. Sticks and stones are not our scene, we’re a pacific lot with a big memory and a sackful of words. Which we use masterfully.