Saturday, May 4, 2013

hollow melancholy.

I shouldn’t be struggling with words, and I just pointed out the very problem. What is my relationship with words? Dipped in them since the beginning of my life, I’ve always had blood of ink. Cut me, slice my heart and it’d be that black viscous liquid I’d bleed. There are times I’ve tried to relieve myself of them, calm my mind, embrace the silence, but temporarily. Always temporarily. Then I miss them and want them back. Although miss is perhaps the wrong word. Frantically crave. I need them back. I always want them near. 

I guess I want them close enough to be able to reach for them whenever I want to, but not so near as to drown my entire my mind out. I try to keep them within arms reach, but it’s not like they’re static. It’s not like these black markings we’ve put down on paper. Words are alive and they are roamers. You have to know the ways in which they run, but we never really know as much as we think we do.

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