why it seems that words have the ultimate purpose of filling the voids our understanding cannot.
Is it a need, I wonder, to communicate, or is it a need to release? or being known, understood, visible, present and existent.
who is listening, who do we write this for, who do we talk for and why are we choosing our words from a careless mind if what we are trying to say is sacred?
As words are produced and swarm our minds in mostly crafted rules and formulas, the business of putting them together and releasing them somehow takes over the un-defined feeling or emotion that perhaps initiated such need…it seems.
Words are not personal, they are words.
The source of the need to communicate and for what purpose is where the esprit lies.
For stories, anecdotes, tales, events and memories are the vehicle that whether we know it or not is being chosen to transmit a feeling, a deeper meaning, a message that needs not to be encoded with details but felt as it was experienced.
Writing has been for the most part the redemption of a life through imagination. The refuge from an uncontrollable reality and eventually became the excuse to hold on to the only place where there’s control and fabricated peace.
The indeterminable invisibility of shielding behind words. The unknown mystery of all things possible through hilations of phrases. The unilateral conversation of a life lived in a head, slightly to the left.
The all inclusive voyage that is available any time of the year. The poetic exercise stretched with no one. The ‘regard’ of the self through the perspective of words as they leave us.
a life written is not a life lived.
