If words could speak for themselves, would they tell us it aches to be used in such a way, without a care for the honest translation of meanings that live behind, only a sustenance for our hunger to appear righteous?
If words could speak for themselves, would they ask not to be regarded as a clutter of empty fillers, a nullity where truth was meant to stand? Would they plead to be seen for who they are, a neutral mediator offering justice to the experiences we had?
If words could speak for themselves, would they tell us to cease subjecting our intricate reality to plain verbal language, and instead subject our senses to their innate openness and impartiality? A way of being where explanations don’t presume experiences, but experiences pave the path for the novelty of words, concepts, meanings, and ideas.
Would they tell us they aren’t merely acoustic signs immune to thoughtless waste and abuse, but sacred symbols that open doors to worlds we yearn to discover? Synapses that connect our form with our substance, stagnancy with creativity, discord with harmony.
Do we love them and drown in them to such an extent because of their submissiveness to bend in any way we imagine, for how safe they make us feel when avoiding the incorruptible communication of two naked pairs of eyes, or the undistorted voice that rises from our navel?
If words could speak for themselves, would they tell us they were not intended to build walls, but create bridges between countless islands inhabited by each soul?
Would they tell us they are not weapons to be used against oneself or another; rather, each letter like a tiny offering of peace, every word a puzzle of unity we have forgotten, but long for.
What’s meant to help ease and deepen the connection, now a tool of escape and deception.
Do words hurt when we use them in such a cruel way?
Do we hurt more than necessary when we play that game?
