The terrorism of words


Words
Words (Photo credit: Southernpixel Alby.us)

It is late, but I cannot sleep.

Every moment sires in me new thoughts, and the dreaded vehicles of these thoughts – words.

Words swarm through my head, like a disturbed nest of bees, and like an army of traitors, they pound my head from within, seeking to escape from their confines.

Yes, now I see it. All through, it has only been words that are the harbingers of peril. At any time, I am assaulted by a million of these, as if there were an army of soldiers aiming them at me. But nay, this army seeks more than to wound. They seek to destroy; they tip the barbs the shoot with the dreaded poison – meaning.

Who am I? Why am I? – simple these string of words may seem, but they assault me from within. They imprison my senses. Like a dense cloak, they confound my actions.

Like an addict, all I keep looking for are shots of meaning in things I do. Relax I can’t, and my nerves are on an edge. Ah! Someone free me from these words.

It’s not an easy battle, as the tool I use most frequently is corrupt too – reason and rationality owe themselves to words.

It wasn’t always so. No, it wasn’t always so. There were times, I remember, when I used to love floating. Dreams, rich in color and magnificent in setting; dreams, carved with wonder and baked in fantasy – these were worlds I inhabited. In them, I was free. Free! I could bend sound at my will and hoodwink gravity.

Somewhere, the words started trooping in. Young as I was, I did not see the dangers. I invited them into the worlds, and gaily stamped objects in them with labels. They did help me at first – neatly strung together like beads, they made it easier to assess degrees of emotion within.

But fool as I was, I did not see. I did not see. Where once the worlds looked fresh and wonderful to inhabit, the very degrees brought out the comparative. Was I as happy in one as another? Did what I do in these make sense?

Where once my senses abounded majestically, they now were enslaved by a master, ironically called common sense. Common it was, dreadfully so. It erased the improbable and impossible and yoked my dreams to the plebian.

As the words started impaling me from every side possible, they grew in numbers within me. They fornicated and produced bastard children – thoughts. There were so many of them, that my mind had no place for all of them, and they started flowing down other paths.

What a joy it was earlier, to just think. With words breeding like viruses, no longer so. I can’t think of smell without putting a name to it. I no longer dream of sounds without identifying their origin. Even the fluidity of passion is lost, as all that flows is an ooze of words.

From a craftsman, I have become a mason – building edifices of words, seeing the progression of work, but not the art in the attempt.

Someone free me from words.

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