I love words. I devour them like plants absorb the sun for nourishment. I feed on their ability to convey so many emotions, to give us countless ways to describe the essence of who we are and to capture all the wonderful nuances in life. Words are simple in their nature but intricate in their distinction.
But sometimes words fail. There are so many things we want to say, so many emotions we want to share and words just don’t do justice to the feelings we are trying to express. There have been moments that I have had so many words hovering on the precipice of being spoken aloud but those words seem to pale in comparison to the message I really want to send.
It is not often that words are not my ally. It is an uncomfortable moment when the things I love seem to leave me when I most need them. Where once was a plethora of idioms, a bottomless chasm of silence resides. My inability to use words to their potential precludes me from saying the precise thing I want to say.
But those words are sometimes delivered even though they are unspoken. Those muted messages find their way through the silence and are easily understood as they soundlessly fall on the ears intended to hear them.
As as writer, I rely on words to accurately convey how I am feeling. I use those words to express myself. But sometimes I forget that the words I don’t say, the words that are felt and not heard, are just as loud as the ones I speak.
polysyllabic profundities 
Words are beautiful, sometimes magical. Pleasure reading this post. Have a great weekend.
Thank you very much. I hope you have a great weekend as well.
Thanks
One of my greatest fears in life is the words running out.
Mine too.
I love reading your words. I feel like I’m there with you sometimes 😉
Thank you….that means a lot. 🙂
Ironic, perhaps, but you’ve said/written it well.
If it’s any consolation, I think every human being has felt this way before. Also, if you’ve never read it, you might like to read T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets sequence; in one of the four (I can’t remember which one now, but maybe “Burnt Norton”), he talks about words sliding, slipping, and perishing and the times when words fail. Then, I think in the final quartet, he talks about how while the music lasts, you are the music (I think that holds for the act of creating writing, too). Beyond all Eliot’s faults, this poem sequence is superb (IMHO, but I’m biased).
Thanks very much, Leigh. I’m going to find that tonight. 🙂