As we talk we spin words out of thin air, meld thoughts into sentences, and articulate whole realms of experience into shared knowledge and wonder. Or at least that's what want to happen in the best of times. But what about the words that are never said, or at least the ones that haven't been said yet?
Do the words that haven't been said yet loiter on in some otherworldly metaphysical store? If our souls go somewhere to sleep in between turns at the bodily wheel, do they sleep in the same happy space, comforted by a huge blanket of unspoken words? What do all the words left unsaid come to in the grand story of things? And what is that story, that grand narrative of all the words that ever were or will be?
Imagine a great wooden loft space, with mighty oak roof windows looking out into the word space of the great outer world. From that loft space, that we can never access except in sleep, great works of unborn literature can be seen wafting by in the wind. Abstract thoughts roll by in concrete balls and poems that never made it to paper are clouds in a ludicrously blue sky. The negatives in the far distance rumble menacingly, clouds of withheld threats and grudges from all the peoples of the world, unborn declarations of war and prejudices kept in for all told reasons.
Beware the unborn words. Spoken words convert their power into simple cause and effect and then die. Words left unsaid accumulate meaning in the bearer and slowly distort themselves into bizarre mixed messages and dire consequences, loaded with intent passions and missed opportunities. If there is something to be written or said then it's often best to say it. The one exception, and it is always exceptional in every way, is love. A glance or a look can express love as well as a word in the best of circumstances. Is there a place for unspent looks and smiles too? Might it be a sad place?
Spin and swirl, do the twirl, happiness and sunshine, give it a whirl.
O.
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