We are a strange breed–we who try to cobble together, Frankenstein-like, meaning from the jumbled words screaming to escape the crenellations of our cortexes, the dark rivers of our hearts. They–these words–will not lie still, and unlike that patient etherized upon a table, they wriggle and squirm–awaiting their birth.
And once poured forth upon the page, not only do they not die, but also take on entirely new lives of their own. Yet still do they live in the backs of our minds as well–these word babies, once birthed, yet waiting still to be born.
Though they permeate–like a fragrant tea–our waking lives, still we see them even when our eyes are closed. Words are the tea our souls are steeped in; like tea, there are different hues, tones, notes, and flavors to our words. There are the weaker, and the stronger.
And spometimes they shamble weakly, zombie-like; other times, they run. Still other times, they sing.
Blessed are we to catch these falling notes before they are lost to the mists of memory and of time.
Cast wide your nets, writers, and wonder at the words.
Do you wonder at the words?
Note: tomorrow there will be no new post here; rather, I’m hosted by Captain The Joseph Craven on The Greatest Blog of All Time. So please head over there tomorrow. Thanks!
