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Photo credit: IZ

I’ll mend myself before it gets me. ~Seether

I’ve been thinking a lot about words today. About the power they hold in my life—how deeply attracted I am to language, how much I rely on it, how easily it is to misuse or misunderstand the words we hear or see or feel. Because I do think we feel them, acutely sometimes. Who hasn’t found themselves moved to tears by the hurtful words from a loved one? Or laughing hysterically at the verbal antics of a friend? We’ve all stashed words of love deep into our pockets, savoring them, turning them over and over in the palms of our psyches—worry stones for all that ails us.

Some words take up residence in our souls, refusing to leave. We can only hope these words are good tenants. That they nourish us or inspire us or at least comfort us when we face a bitter kind of cold that isn’t easily chased away.

As a storyteller, I rely on more than just words to make myself heard. I rely on your imagination to color in the outlines. And some days, I’m loath to find the words I need to draw my lines thick enough for you to see. On those days, it all feels muddled. While I have no control over reader-response, I can usually see where I failed to make myself clear. Even if I can’t see how to fix it.

Wordless. It’s not a condition I relish. I’m still waiting for a magic pill. Still waiting for someone to shoot me up with just the right serum. We all want a panacea.

Looking for a muse, always looking for a way around this wordlessness. Churned up, pointless, finding no better way to say. . . I got nothing.