Friday, July 18, 2008

Words that are spoken are words that are freed.

They are lifted from cages, set free from pages, they fly around till gravity gets them to settle in clusters. And of course, an army of opposing ones would mostly mean war or more conversely, lust.

Which I'm perfectly fine with.

But words are animals and we're that annoying species that sits on top of the food chain. Some need to be nurtured, some can be kept as pets, while most need their own sanctuaries. Some need salt pits, the others survive on sharp tongues. They can hurt if intimidated, they can rip you apart because they don't know how else to kill. Words kill. No, not in the Aretha-Franklin-killing-me-softly way but more ripping-apart-bear-maul way. Yes, they hurt physically. Ask me about my headaches.

And I hate to think that the one person who matters the most has been hurt by my words.

Lately, we've been killing each other in bits, pieces dying out like nebulas, turned inside out and upside down. It's quite spectacular if someone's watching. This war of light and fire, spite and momentary hatred; we are killing each other. It is a cancer of words, of language, of communication. There are times that you cannot command the nicer words to come back, but words are powerful and they never fade. There are quotebooks in everyone's heads and they never perish. Little yellow mind diaries... don't ask me why they're yellow. It's a movie thing, given a choice between green goo and yellow slimy pages, I prefer yellow pages.

A cancer in the head propelled by the heart.

Words, I fear them these days. I'm afraid that what I write now might haunt me tomorrow. I see little white gowned thoughts with big black mouths and pointed ears to hear the scared ones in my head. Do animals believe in the supernatural?

Do words have a supernatural plane?

I think that is the explanation, a parallel world with silver-jet-propelled karma ready to be shot at you with words as shrapnel when the Bearded Man is bored on a Sunday. But there is only so much I possess and most of them are made of words and forgotten promises. That's almost all of what I possess. The rest are the pages and data bits that hold them. The words and their crutch.

I wish they don't kill us one of these days, these words that you and I have been hurling at each other.

I love you way too much for that.

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