Writing

My grasp of words is often times so shaky, so easily malleable, I wonder if I were meant to hold them at all. There are so many other beautiful things in this world. If only I didn’t have to pick and choose. There is much more to me than words, even if it those words that link them altogether. Or perhaps they are all part of an interconnected web I could not untangle if I wanted to, not with hands. Hands, like words, are shaky and their skill is malleable; faced with  a new knot, it is hard to distinguish the practiced from the rookie.

But what am I saying? It is through words that I have thus far lived my life. If I were to go against words I would need to go against everything else I cherish as well; as my hands sometimes replace words, my words are my hands with which I explore and untangle the world.

And no one has told me to pick and choose. It is a mentality formed by the very words which I use to carry out my life: singulars, closed-ended one answer questions, fill in the blanks. The frightening thing is the power of words used in those situations are the same as that which I claim to one day declare mastery over to the general public.

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