in the category of random, intense things written quite some time ago...
whether you write me once a month, every day, or five times every hour. whether we've spoken on the phone only once in the past year, last night or never at all. whether you can even remember the sound of my voice. you're here. and you know me in some small way because you are.
and that's rather scary. because these are just words. all my little words. my silly, tarted up, worn out words. they're not your's and yet you can do with them whatever you will. because words are selfish sluts. clever gymnasts. they'll run about with whomever comes along and cartwheel into the pocket of whomever lends them an ear. they are inconstant and chameleonic. to me, they are polka dotted and plaid. to you, they may be purple. they may make you see red.
there is imperfection inherent here. we are all of us flawed. we are none of us perfect and our words fail us accordingly. no matter how we work them over or line them up or string them out, they let us down.
that's a hell of a hard thing to contend with and it seeps into every little piece of who we are- how you look at me, how i stare blankly back at you, how she laughed at your joke, how you furrowed your brow, how i didn't say what i wanted to say when you didn't hold my hand. it all comes back to these inadequate words that we are left with.
these words that say so little. nothing, really. a clumsy excruciatingly orchestrated jumble of disconnected consonants and dissonance that we are each left alone to parse for meaning or logic as though they were the remnants of some glorious civilization lost. as though they weren't just stupid words.
words that might say it all and still mean absolutely nothing.