This is taking some time to come together. I’m not even sure what it is exactly that I wish to talk about here. Only that, at this hour, the desire to wield letters feels more like an itch that won’t let me sleep unless I cave in to it. So to borrow from those graceful feline creatures, I’ll drop to the ground, contort into a coil, put one outstretched leg over my head, and lick away. That to you may not be a particularly pretty mental picture, just as this random post is shaping up to be, but it does the job. This is what quickies are for anyway, right? Immediate release. Unbridled passion. Quite often, exhilarating, covert trysts. (Now what am I saying? I draw from an arid well of experience in that subject, therefore absolving me of any indecency. Think what you may. That’s on you.)
Love letters. The kind that takes hours to write; the kind that ends up losing all its vitality by the time it’s done, stale from all the editing and rewriting; the kind that was never meant to be given and read at all. Why did you even bother in the first place?
And poetry. Yes, poetry. Lined notebooks drenched in saccharine stanzas, cooing couplets, and headache-inducing rhymes. Not a proud literary period, but we all have to start somewhere, right? Made you a prolific little poet at least, scribbling a line on the last page during almost every class. Launched many a writing career, I’m sure.
If only people always mean what they say and say what they mean, maybe it will be simpler. If the words swimming in the quagmires of our minds could behave and lend themselves to easy expression, then there would be less ambiguity and guesswork. Maybe less fun too.
Sometimes, words take time to form not because the message is difficult, but because we’re being careful how to say it. The packaging can indeed weigh more than the contents. Some words bear much power; they threaten to bring you to your knees when you utter them. Still others are more potent. They stay and sink deep enough that they linger in your veins; regulate the beating of your heart; hoping to translate through the touch of a hand, a penetrating stare, the grazing of a thumb.
Then the words begin to melt away. You learn that some things are meant to be taken, not politely asked for. For the second time, you have a seemingly empty white sheet. And it’s not because language has failed. You are simply done talking. The conversation has left the page and is now on a different plane.