Three

Today I read;

" 'Noise has one advantage. It drowns out words.' And suddenly he realized that all his life he had done nothing but talk, write, lecture, concoct sentences, search for formulations and amend them, so in the end no words were precise, their meanings were obliterated, their content lost, they turned into trash, chaff, dust, sand; prowling through his brain, tearing at his head, they were his insomnia, his illness. "

Today this made me incredibly sad.

I love to read, I love to be inside some other place, my imagination is vivid. This man, who rips at his own reality makes me want to cry. I'm so angry at you, for destroying my hope in any word, i do not want my words to loose meaning.

It would be nice to think that like books, poems, lyrics for songs even, my own words would be clung to and not loose their meaning. Even if it was only me who clung to them.

To be completely honest with myself, I know that no one will remember what I say or write or sing, but I like to remember others' words that they have so delicately assembled into stunning sentences and phrases. The meaning of these words, make me, me.

"Console me, not comfort me"