Words

It all started with the end. Most people assume the opening presents the beginning, however this one starts with  an end. Writing has always been my one form of coping with the present. It's easier to use words than to talk. People are superfluous, possessive of human nature traits. My words have never lied to me. They have never broken my heart. If at all, I was discouraged with my words, it was my own self who was to blame, because I too am an enigma of discouraged emotions. I write because it feels good to open up and delve into my soul venturing for some form of humanity and through my imagination attempt to construct some possible sense of narrative and entice a reader into finding something they too might be able to understand. Then comes the feeling of torment. That depressing moment when nothing is there. Emptiness seems to prevail and the only feeling that exists is lethargic. The only logical option is self-doubt, because at least the reader is beaten to the punch. The punch itself feels like a fist to the face of creativity and imagination. Blood runs down like all the possible good ideas that will either be licked up, wiped away or dropped to the ground and eventually fade. Then again these are merely words. But people underestimate the impact of words' capability. When told one thing and it eventually is revealed as a lie, both the truth and the lie are both composed  of words. Both elicit reactions, and while completely different ones, it truly shows the power of language. People communicate and they don't communicate, however one circumstance is always prevalent, words are always selected whether premeditated or not. From the greatest composed monologue to utmost moment of spontaneity, words are always chosen. It's how we find ourselves, lose ourselves, test ourselves, love ourselves, want ourselves, hate ourselves, and merely allow ourselves.  Sometimes, no! Most of the time the best way to express oneself is as Hamlet graciously put it, "Words, Words, Words."