Sticks and Stones
Words have power. They carry with them motivation, intent, impact and excuse, all wrapped together in a lyrical bow. A stick leaves a welt, certainly, but a word doesn't just graze the surface. It invades, flowing through your corpus. Skin sloughs off and is replaced. Where do your insides go?
Language has long fascinated me, from age 3 when I asked my mother for "agua" and she didn't understand. Words hide concepts and build walls. Walls keep strangers out, and bring communities together. But sometimes walls hide away princesses. The Buddha gained nothing from being sheltered from the tragedies of life. If walls are just artificial constructs to help up make sense of the world, to what extent are we creating a myopic view?
Why do I love words? They help me spin out what's inside, weave a silken string of thought from the depths of my being. But the words are not my own, they belong to every man who has allowed an utterance escape. How vulnerable am I, not truly in sharing my feelings but allowing someone to understand them as he sees fit? My feelings are secret and sacred, behind the walls, not OF the walls. Yet I decorate them cheerily, as though they will be received as special gifts I have brought forth. I should know that they will not be cherished so much once I have presented them, but at that point it is beyond my control. I can only offer them.
Language has long fascinated me, from age 3 when I asked my mother for "agua" and she didn't understand. Words hide concepts and build walls. Walls keep strangers out, and bring communities together. But sometimes walls hide away princesses. The Buddha gained nothing from being sheltered from the tragedies of life. If walls are just artificial constructs to help up make sense of the world, to what extent are we creating a myopic view?
Why do I love words? They help me spin out what's inside, weave a silken string of thought from the depths of my being. But the words are not my own, they belong to every man who has allowed an utterance escape. How vulnerable am I, not truly in sharing my feelings but allowing someone to understand them as he sees fit? My feelings are secret and sacred, behind the walls, not OF the walls. Yet I decorate them cheerily, as though they will be received as special gifts I have brought forth. I should know that they will not be cherished so much once I have presented them, but at that point it is beyond my control. I can only offer them.