A Love Letter To Words
I don’t see words. I see stories. I paint words that dapple, and blend, and reach until they project themselves into my mind, and I’m almost where the work’s soul is. It’s a movie, both vintage and modern, but also real, and sometimes I forget that it’s not really happening, sometimes I forget that a dream’s not reality, and my words sometimes contort themselves and make themselves up and I think that they too are dreams. I write in purple prose, but my words are kaleidoscopes and rainbows, and they shimmer and shine on their blue or black ink that splotches across white sheets of love—until coffee or tea spills and those sheets are yellowed, or until the words—in their ink (that resembles the intangible abyss my ideas really live in) has covered the entire page, like kisses all over a lover’s face.
I want forever to feel the rushing heart beat, and hear the thrashing waterfall in my reddening ears, as I listen for the voices of my characters and see them come to life in my eyes and in my mind. When I dance across the snowy dead trees like this—my pen my waltzing partner—my fingers and eyes and ears blossom and bleed like blooming red roses–as scarlet as a running heart. Our steps are so swift and delicate that a candle’s flame would not be burned out in our joined hands, so graceful that a pile of books would not even teeter or totter on our burning heads. But sometimes we figure skate, sometimes we jog side by side. Yet, other times we turn together, or thrill skate, or extreme roller blade, or run, or race, or gallop. And even other times we lazily stroll or just sit and look around. My words and I, my pen and I, and my mind and I search for inspiration or muses. Sometimes they find us instead. Actually, they usually hunt us down when we’ve given up playing hide and seek with ideas and possibilities.
My favorite part of the adventure and the tale, however, is when we climb a mountain. We’ve crossed the sea, found the treasure, told our tale and lived. We still live. I color my words in colorful makeup to make them feel more beautiful, because they are already Guinevere to Lancelot, and Rosalie or Juliet to Romeo. They dress in royal robes and gowns, made from precious fabrics and rare dyes. I join them in their glamour, as my love is complete, and together we present ourselves to the world—be it a poem, a short story, or someday, a novel. I will always live side by side with my words, and they are what I seek to achieve and to hold, and what I have won in my birth. My words.