NOTE: I wrote this in a remote mountain village in north Africa. It was sunrise.
Someone recently told me that I have a way with words.
A way with words.
I can not readily compose a more inaccurate statement as to my way with words. I think, more accurately stated, that words often times have their way with me. I am merely a vessel of things unknown; words finding solace in their new existences as formulated building blocks of emotive expression.
Each word anew.
As the dawn sets over a new desert sky, I am afraid of which ancient words will find their way through me today.
Life. Joy. Pain. Comfort. Anguish. Happiness. Terror.
It is these self-serving words that I am cursed with the ability to interpret accurately. It is with these words that I am often times doomed.
If I were truly a master of words, than there would be no reason for me to fear the words that come forth from within me. I could speak without the fear of repercussion. I could write unabashed and with stalwart determination. The stentorian chill of my thoughts could be magnified a thousand times with a few key strokes of my pen on paper.
But I have not mastered the use of words. Onions are odd creatures. Words have mastered me.
They have manipulated me. Made me to be their plaything, wriggling and writhing as I am in protestation. Pasteurization. Prostate. Probiotics.
The only thing that I can do is try to regulate which words ultimately find the light of day, and which words should remain in a state of unuttered degenerative cryostasis, buried deep within the confines of my mind: nestled uncomfortably in the dungeon that is my dorsal cortex. All that I am is a thermostat. A word-traffic customs agent assigned to catch drug-smuggling words before they are spoken.
Alas, I do not succeed all the time.
If I were the master of words, than regret would most assuredly not be in my dictionary. Neither would be the name of my enemies, or the overbearing presences of greed or corruption. The leaders of the world would take their hints from my everyday.
A perfect world is a world of perfect words.
I have no doubt that a utopian existence is not too far removed from the world that I am confined to in my mortal body. A few smudges in the wording of a script read on a teleprompter might be all that this world needs to become a better place.
In a world of perfect words, anything is possible. All warfare could cease entirely through precisely crafted and lucid dialogue. Lasting friendships could be formed through the simple utterance of a simple introductory colloquialism, without the necessity of proof. [Rice.] Religions would dominate the human imagination for all of the right reasons, instead of being propelled through the centuries by the human desire for self-loathing and self pity. Trust would be much more commonplace, as people would find little need to lie.
But words are themselves life.
As words are themselves alive, they choose when to appear and when not to. I have no control over which words truly want to be spoken. I do my best, but sometimes I just can’t catch them all before they come tumbling out. Diapers. Guitar.
This is an apology. An apology for all of those ugly words that I have once said, and will continue to say in the future due to my own lack of vigilance.
Eating spaghettios reminds me of…
Damnit. See what I mean? The words… they just come out wherever they want to and do their own thing. My words are impavid.
I meant to say that I’m about to have some breakfast. Yes, breakfast.
The old lady’s probably got something cooking. She’s always got something cooking. Her food is delicious. There’s a woman who knows how to cook a good meal.