Words Worth

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I think we may be doing the math wrong. The picture exists, static in time and space. It leaves little to nothing for the imagination to fill in. But words are the fire of the mind, the ember of the soul. They crackle and burn within, fueling flights of fancy that no picture could ever capture. Let us not view words too cheaply. Let us not hold them in contempt. With words are men’s souls stoked. With words are revolutions kindled. With words are we remembered. Consider with me their true worth.

caught in-between (for 5.7.13)

She watched him walk away. Those long, nimble strides making the distance between them bigger and bigger. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she felt. All the words she had so carefully strung together were relaxing on the tip of her tongue and although she tried to coax them out, they were happily content on the pink sponge.
She wanted to scream, or yell at him to come back.
But, those words weren't budging either.
So, she gave up and walked away from the shadow that was growing smaller by the second.
Her words still caught in the middle of unsaid and spoken.

Words Can’t Describe

Words muddle my thoughts and jumble my emotions. The lexicon of the brain cannot be expected to supply the heart and soul with an adequate vocabulary. I wish to think in thoughts and feel with emotions, not with the words that insufficiently “summarize” them. But, Language, you skirmish incessantly against my experiences. Wernicke and Broca, you warmongers, unharness my heart and unfasten my feelings from your words. From spectrums base and visceral to blissful and heavenly you fail me.  I am more than an adjective modified noun performing verbs. Maybe this doesn't make any sense—I can’t find the words.

{variables} (for) 5.27.12

I hate math. The numbers and equations, lines and graphs, patterns and circles, variables and givens, formulas, and on and on and on. Nothing ever works out just right, instead I end up with a jumbled mess of numbers that don't make any sense at all. “f” functions in my life as one big nuisance, “x” equals pain, and parabolas are maxima trouble. No, I like words. I can manipulate them so that they make sense and sound good, I like symbolism, and annotating, and explicating.

Numbers just are not my thing. And there's nothing variable about that.

{Stats.} (for) 5.15.12 (written) 9.6.11

1.8 million died from aids in 2009. 4,477 US troop casualties. 42 million abortions per year. 2,819 killed in the 9 11 attack. 6 million Jews killed in the Holocaust. 42,636 people die in car crashes every year.

They have become numbers. They are, to us merely statistics, words on a page or lines on a graph. But to them-their family and friends, to their Creator they were more. Fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents, they were best friends, husbands and wives. They were more, but now they are gone. 

They had voices of their own. 

5.20.11-write your words

The words come. The days when your fingers can't keep up with the words your mind is forming. The days when everything is poetry and words are everywhere. The days when you need a pen next to you or some brilliant, beautiful words might escape the reaches of paper and be lost forever in the abyss of forgotten thoughts.
Until all the words are written and all the books are read, till all pens are put down I will write... even on the days when I have no words. Because what if I die before all my words are written?

5.19.11-in sand

Written words on the shoreline. Promises, hopes, dreams and thoughts roughly drawn with a piece of drift wood, inscribed just beyond the reaches of the weakest licks of the waves. Signed while the tide was out, and the words were out of danger. But the tide can not stay away forever. As the sun sets, as the stars slowly appear, the tide rises closer and closer to the words. In only one rush of salty water they are erased, washed away forever. A smooth potion of wet sand is left behind, an empty canvas for new words. It's like forgetting.

5.18.11-loss for words

there are millions of things to write about. Mundane things- flowers, and bumblebees, school, and food, crayons, and candy. And extraordinary things-shooting stars, love, death, beauty, and life. So why can I not decide what to write about. Why, after only 17 drabbles can I not think of anything more to say? Why won't any thought stick in my head long enough to for me to write about it? There are so many words to write, so many mysteries to unravel and thoughts to explain, so many things to describe, but none of them are exactly right for today's drabble.

(for) 5.15.11-What are words?

proclamations, analyzations, vows, statements, questions, shouts, whispers, speeches, conversations, secrets, lists, news, commands, prose, apologies, taunts, text books, encouragements, confessions, pledges, lies, thoughts, writings, quotes, manuals, advertisements, novels, magazines, sermons, lectures, letters, notes, threats, prayers, pictures books, poems, confirmations, drabbles, messages, emails, titles, names, articles, announcements, songs, indications, warnings, invitations, verses, labels, instructions, cards, recipes, declarations, pronouncements, sayings, affirmations, oaths, testimonies, decrees, rules, stories, resolutions, testaments, laws, answers, signs, orders, complaints, criticisms, accusations, guarantees, replies, explanations, excuses, agreements, contracts, commitments, hints, compacts, deals, treaties, records, dictionaries, menus, schedules, and promises, but what are words if you really don't mean them?

(I have to say this was inspired by “what are words” by Chris Medina)

tweet tweet

some say the eyes are a look into a person's soul. there are all those terribly romantic scenes in books when the boy knows what the girl is thinking by the look in her eyes. eyes sparkling, eyes flashing with anger, eyes going dark with dread. as deliciously dramatic as all this is, it’s not exactly true. eyes really aren’t the window into the soul. one can only tell some much about a person by their eyes. it takes more than a look to define a person; it takes a word. honestly, words are the window into the soul.

5.7.11 Thoughts in Black and White - a drabble of 100 words

Sometimes, I write words with an ink pen to see the contrast of the black against the white. To know that the page will never be white again, that the words there that were banging around in my brain have magically jumped from me to the outside world.

Sometimes the words rhyme and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes, the words make you laugh and sometimes they make you cry. Sometimes, the words are in my diary so that when I’m old, I can see the yellowed once-white pages covered with faded black memories.

Sometimes, the words are just a grocery list.