Words

It’s a book, a poem, a– whatever you must call it. It’s words. I haven’t been everywhere. Nor have you. The great explorer travels the Earth, its peaks and valleys, the dark and light. They have been so far, stepping foot in the most basic realm of the universe. Greater yet are those who explore words. Those who explore places, emotions, messages. Which can not be seen on such a complex, such a simple Earth. These places, they are uncovered, like ancient artifacts, longing to be remembered by time. They lie in our imaginations, rolling restlessly, until they jump on papers with anticipation, writing themselves. And all this time the writer simply sits, lightly dust brushing these thoughts– And suddenly, their work is finished. Their words don’t exist. They can’t be seen, heard, or touched. They can’t live. Yet here we are. Yet here the living stand. Watching these little inky blobs that we throw so carelessly on paper, transforming the mind– the heart– the soul. Transforming the world, and the worlds which we only long to live in. These words don’t live but they speak! These words can’t write yet we compose our own thoughts from them! They are us! They are all which makes our emulation possible within someone else! Someone somewhere else, some time else! These words we toil upon aimlessly. Finding meaning in nonsense, finding nonsense in meaning. They are full of hate, full of love. They ruin us, fill us, make us, break us. They make bloods run cold! As cold as ice! They make bloods run again! Bloods which would have stopped otherwise! And they are from the word which changes nothing; rather the collection of them, which is everything. Everything! Everything which exists! Everything which does not exist, can be made with words! The deepest, darkest nights, the brightest days! Days which never come, never occur! And those who believe some can not be expressed in words are the Earthly traveler, unable to explore words, or their own mind. None can fulfil the task of describing words with words themselves so perfectly as to have meaning! As all words are then taken into another’s mind with all different meaning– such that the words themselves then do not have specific meaning to begin with. Well… If you must remember me by something– do not remember me as a poet. Or a writer. Or any of the sort. Remember me as these words. I am– This world is– Places, all things which are yet to be described are– You fill the rest, and everything possible, impossible is made.