dictated to me by my muse . . .
the word was spelled with just the right amount of letters, and if I were to cut the word in half with a knife, the real meaning behind my letters would pour out. what would happen then? what would they think if they knew the real me? can I hide behind a vowel? Is a single consonant enough to depict my heart?
then why are words so important? we say things we don't mean. we say things to shut people up. we say things to keep the boredom from smothering us. we say what others want to hear. empty wiggly lines scribbled on paper, spoken vapor that stings open wounds. intangible objects. invisible power. hidden magic behind the cloaking devices of our souls. never revealing what's deep in the closets of our mind. words, like time, two concepts that keep our existence in motion, yet cannot be seen or touched or held or measured.
how could that be? how could something that we can't see or touch or measure hold the key to our lives--bring us to our knees, or carry us on winged prayers? increments. tiny black dots and angled carvings--like the ticking of sand molecules into an hourglass, pure nothingness, measured by pure nothingness, given the power to make us or break us---to control us.
words. time. air. love. they're blank checks that we fill in. they're empty vaults with the door left open---treasure maps stolen, until some person decides what new meaning to assign them.