Words

We exist in a world where loneliness often envelops us, leaving us longing for genuine connection through words. Words that uplift, inspire, and provide solace are essential for bridging this gap and fostering meaningful relationships. The words condolence, criticism, and acceptance come to mind, but I cannot say when I last heard them. Words are good. Good words have a particular opulence to which few things compare. Feel: the right words can make you feel when there is nothing to touch and touch you when you cannot feel. There is true wealth in words that requires no management other than sorting through what is in your head. A callus heart can be soothed with touch only by the right combination of letters designed to evoke a response from what is deep, ethereal, spent, or exhaustive to your emotion. 

As an old standby, words can provide us company when alone. And that is crucial: while we have all kinds of company available and more opportunities to talk than ever, we are social islands close to being sunk by a tsunami of words we passed up, ignored, or missed. We seem to have become two countries separated by a common language, with several splinters developing into bards, which have become watered down and useless. So, we choose silence; if you listen closely, you can hear it. It is a noticeable sound that winds down like an old water wheel that stops spinning because it has not rained, and the creeks have dried up, allowing you to walk across the cracked riverbed. 

Pages worn and torn, folded over to save where you stopped, so you know where to start again. Or pages of words with familiar ringing that sound so good they create scenic beauty or dreadful melancholy so deep you feel your life change, end, or move at a different rate. These words are on pages with charcoal edges and tears from burning or turning too quickly. A gush of a rush to get through it causes damage…. Always. 

We hope our words can change the painful reality of our hatred by blaming the trigger for pulling the finger. This creates the fallacy that there is something else to blame for our painful behavior, believing that the killing is the bullet’s business and not our own. If we did not have any bullets, everything would be fine. You see, it is not the gun but the ammo. It is not the ruler but the ruled. The enslaved people are where the problems exist. Really?

Then there are the words unseen, between the lines, on the margin, not part of the central text or thought but essential enough to be scribbled somewhere or tucked in the deep capsules of your mind to be called on if needed. Some are stored forever and never needed or summoned. 

You can change words like president into criminal or criminal into president, which will mean the same thing. That is hard to do, but we are on the verge.

There is a place in Venice, Italy. A lot has been written about the Bridge of Sighs. It is the covered bridge crossing built in the 1600s. It was the place where a prisoner had a long last look at Venice and the natural world before crossing, knowing his life would end. There is also a legend that couples who kiss while floating underneath will have eternal love. Songs come to mind. I have always thought Michael Oldfield’s tune Tubular Bells was the right combination of musical notes to play here forever. There are no words in the song. 

Peace,