Words are the delicate fiber of my being. They rise together strong and construct my character and my heart. They are the things that keep me awake at night, make me wonder who I’ll ever be, if I can ever attain what I want to attain. Words are the making of happiness and they are the making of fear. It is all in the delivery. It depends only on if there is a sharp ‘k’ sound or a soft ‘c’ and if there is assonance in the phrase.
The quick rush of alliteration and a strong onomatopoeia can make my day. I am my words; I am what I choose to say if and when I choose to say it. I become what I write because what I write is what I believe. What I write cannot be unwritten and what I believe cannot be unbelieved. There is the ever-present idea that words are infinite. They will be this way and there is nothing anybody can do. I find comfort in this. It is nice to know that what I write and what they write is there for me to hold onto as I plunge into the world of the unknown. Words are my anchor amidst the churning seas of life.
I can make words bend and I can make them break, and this is reliable. I am not in control of the words–I am the words. I am the metaphors and similes that tumble upon each other with such rapidity it takes a second for you to think about what it means. I am the quick, short power sentences and the long, emotional ones. I am love, hope, power. I am hate, war, death. I am antidisestablishmentarianism and I am and. I can write because writing is just another way of bearing my soul to the world, of showing who I am.