As words tell me a story I cherish them with my hands. I wrap my thoughts around them to keep them safe so that they have a person to talk to who’s not too busy to appreciate them. It is my way of allowing a dream to dream of dreaming, an often forgotten art of the world, where the imagination is freed among the atmospheres of becoming something other than a fact of existing. Excusing itself from the plights of ambition only to exist as possibility to befriend the breath of life and give itself the pleasure of still being alive among human minds that are more often than not eliminated from its presence with the dire issues of the world and the corporate ladders that shrink beneath feet.
Words, a friend to us all if allowed to be. Those engrossing visitations of other worldly experiences where a phrase writes in multiple extensive instances outside of needed concentrations where focus is forced into distracted comparisons and derogatory dimensions. Characters take their time to introduce themselves, never rushing a partaker of the wording to a complete caption of ‘by now you must know’ while erasing definitions of definements and peeling back layers of probabilities to the presumptions of livings unknown.
Words are most neutral in the appearance they hold in structures. They are multifaceted truths able to combine themselves to everything or nothing. They invoke readers to plunder through page after page dispelling ignorance and assumptions, encouraging the absorption of megalithic monuments built upon thousands of generations composed from ideologies brought into existence by those who welcomed them. We meet kings and warriors, we meet henchmen and heroes, we are faced with decisions of personalities and those opposed to the detriment of the living. We do not become the words, the words become themselves. They will to live among us as something other than facts so that we may accept the possibilities of existence forever encouraging our emotions and daily thinking skills to perceive and accept if they should exist at all.
Even those who use them for destructive behaviors reach for those irreplaceable beings of communications to entice us into their thinking. And while the world pushes our minds to the brink of extinction as mono-opinionated apparatuses, some of us prayerfully wish for miraculous intervention. The moments of creation between writer and word where the world around us takes a vacation from our thinking and we are transported into the freedoms of viewing an age of intriguing beginnings which apply to our thoughts a place, a time, a people we have never imagined. We are asked both to question and accept their decisions, believe in their abilities, postpone all our rationality and allow them to compel us into their story in order that we will understand what was so wanting.
As words tell me their secrets I cradle them close to me so that they might find comfort and acceptance, a safe place to be. A friend in a world where so many are unfriendly and shun them shooing them away from having the freedoms they have known to teach and explain the inventions of airplanes, the breeds of animals, the genus of flowers, the curse of anger, the blessings of gentleness, the meals of cultural explorations, the values of humaneness, the benefits of effort, the warnings of danger. I make them a place to remind me of reposes needed to rest weary bodies from daily gruels. I allow them to speak freely to offer me their ideas no matter how great or how small. I never assume to know if any of them are correct for I can only give them time to whisper of their making as they deliver me into the womb of their imagination, giving my mind a passport to an unknown era of past or distant destinations to introduce me to people they have met along the way. The lessons they learned, the tragedies they prevented, the loves they have fostered, the disappointments they’ve wept.
When words tell me they wish to speak for a time I console them with a place to take form. In friendship as a friend, in relationship as a student, in moments of eternity, in loneliness understanding they too are alone without the willing hands of another to give them a home. A place to visit, welcomed. As words present themselves to me I wish them well the time to understand the moments of a writer’s hands like mine. Who admires moments of a day where I give them all the space they need to become what they are for. A taught skill, learned and remembered, respected and cherished for the continuation of they’re divine gifting to a living imaginations existence.
