Words, syllables, inflections,
breathed and yelled, soft and loud,
mouthed and thought,
heard and not,
written and spoken,
valued and ignored, but so weighty for the one who owns them, for that one desperate to be treasured.
When we begin, words tumble out in disjointed digraphs and stutters,
cheered and encouraged by proud parents who imagine brilliance with each blurb; but
with time and teaching, the excitement diminishes, and like with any drug, the content needs to be more potent to illicit the same reaction, from spelling bees to grad speeches to wedding toasts and dissertations.
The audiences change, and the stories get retold; successful soliloquies get notched on the belt of significance as the words ebb and flow with the rhythms of life. But then
those who are really listening grow fewer, and more and more voices fill the air, diluting, refuting, and polluting
the pulsing megabytes,
the pixelated opinions that fill our moments, competing with our aging soul words. And it is that—soul. It is as if we start to live a little less, feel a little less, when our words fall to the ground just beyond our lips, buried in the myriad messages that surround and clutter the unnourished imagination.
And I wonder if all this noise will be forever the way of things—if loss and longing, poetry and song, description and discerning will lose their distinctiveness in the throes of hashtags, vlogs, and all the literary litter that swirls like gnats.