only echos

Some people hate words. So they barely use them. Some people talk too much, but essentially they detest words, too. Talking a lot doesn't mean loving words. It usually means manipulating words. Manipulating them to fill/feel a vacuum; to say nothing; to forget your thoughts; to pretend you keep trying.

Devil’s advocate would say that the same goes for silence. Often confused with inner peace, silence makes you seem thoughtful, considerate, even endearing. When in reality, you couldn't care less. But who really cares about silence? It’s for other kinds of animals. And the dead.

Words. Clear, tactical, fragile. Rhyming, forbidden. Big, foul, coined. Words are responsible for the best games. Play with, make up, link, re-arrange, translate, delete, put down, repeat. Words. Familiar, now strange.

Words often make up for lost time, for tears never shed, for love not yet made, for bodies dearly missed. For bodies.

I don't know what it is about me and words. Sometimes it feels that by using them, I don't give up. And by not giving up, I never fail. Foolish. Other times, they just feel right. They help express a part of something that always remains reluctantly hidden. This is not easy. It always demands for someone willing to hear. And listen. And there is no one. Not even me.