On words and why they give me hope

They say words can change lives. Each syllable has weight, a gravity of its own. Maybe that’s why some words stay with us for so long.

What if there were no words?  No letters, no alphabets.  Would we still be who we are?

Words have a strange beauty, it takes time to see. Each word is constant, its meaning is clear. Yet when it is written by hand it takes on the character of the writer. The connections, the spaces; they change.

Sometimes the message is not in the words but in between them.

A language is not just strategic sounds placed together. It contains history, its syntax itself is a story.

They say actions speak louder than words, but does a punch hurt more than angry, hurtful words? Words travel at the speed of sound, much faster than a hand.

Each person is a story, a poem, an epic. The curve of their elbows, the creaking of their joints, the sparkle of their eyes, the sound of a laugh. We are all words, one way or another.

Like people, words are far from perfect. There are never enough and far too many at the same time. They flow out when they’re not supposed to and hide when you need them. At times they seem inadequate, they can’t quite seem to capture what you mean; the feeling of exhaustion, that exact shade of gold, love. Some words roll off your tongue, familiar like old friends, and some feel like stones in your throat. Some you wish you never said and some you wish you did.

If words can find you in the darkness,  if they can be broken and abused, if they can betray you and break you down and bring you back up and if they can survive all that and still be loved and cherished, then maybe there is hope for us too. If words can be forgiven, if we can excuse their inaccuracies and capriciousness then maybe we could do to same for each other.

If words can be more than just vessels, more than just sounds then what’s stopping us from being more than the sum of our parts?

We are not bound by destiny, by some fate we have no say in. We can be poems, novels, the names scrawled on worn-out desks, the love letters read a thousand times, the messages lost in translation, a song to sing when the darkness inches too close.

We can be words. We can be star-dust.

 

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