Writings - Philosophy - 2011

Words so often fall silent like drifting snow flakes on the hidden breeze of the earliest moments of winter. They hang in the air across the breath waiting to be carried to an undetermined number of destinations. Words so seldom meet their potential, to end up meaning the acute perception underneath the notion where in they were conceived. All the while they innocently transmute into devils and saints on such whims of their own accord, and not nearly those of their makers. Yet to deny responsibility for putting such children in flight would be to deny and disregard all which the word stood for. So the epic battle for control of interpretation poses the threat to lays a path of waste across every conversation... unseen yet felt in moments of pressure, argument and coercive triumph.

But who wins such battles? Are the words themselves the victor? Surely It is not the speaker if we can not ever truly know what the word originally meant... or the hidden thoughts which forged their being. In the time it takes for a word to travel it has already bloomed, grown and changed; become ready to die as a new idea ready to reincarnate this same cycle on someone else's lips. Words are vagrant.

Words are memories. They are feelings. They are the volume at a time and place where we might recount a lost nightmare or a glory felt dream. A word is foolishly defined as a label on a package with a colorful ribbon; A guise for nothing more than a vessel containing all things beautiful and hideous. The word is trapped by its own convenience, abused by its own ambiguity, and victimized by its benign malevolence. The word is a paradox, it poses for us, the onlookers and recipients... manifested as a flower in our inner eye. It releases like a morphing undulating echo of prismatic shapes and sizes, that can fill the corridor of candor but drain and contort subconscious circumventions.

It would be such a gift to hope to catch such a beast or magnificent creature in its own environment, to witness it in its own habitat of prebirth. Sadly we can only glimpse at such wonders in the zoos of the literal literature and the poems of daily speech. The word is quite mysterious. It hides as a riddle, a powerful enigmatic question, struggling to be heard in every syllable of every sentence in every paragraph. It wishes to be seen, but a word can only ask you to understand with more words.