The sheer impotency of the words you breathe render you invisible.
Try to count the syllables you make in a sentence, the impossible never-ending branches of meaning you imbue into every letter, never to be heard or recognized by any being but yourself.
Don’t try to remember the words. Even you, the creator of the sentences the wind wrenches from your pink mouth cannot replicate the shapes your tongue, lips, and teeth contorted to create.
To be heard, just once.
Frenziedly mound meaning into every fleshy verb, try not to get pinched by the harsh angles and sloping peaks of nouns. Try to fight your way through paralyzing adjectives to struggle against the wall of empathy protectively binding the ears of the listener. You, too, are cruel in your inadequacy.
Don’t deny the pleasure it brings to purposefully misunderstand.
I hope the weight of your impotency crushes you. We don’t live long enough to see our words fade to dust, then ash, then nothing. Fooling ourselves with visions of grandeur to precious to speak (for what are dreams but beautiful paragraphs of lovely words unable to push themselves past your lips) and pretending that everyone else has them too (you can’t be alone in your gorgeous imaginings, say it isn’t true).
Those who live long enough to see their words stretched and pushed to their very limits possibly have the only taste of immortality granted in this life. To be heard, no, listened to (more than accepting mindless sounds to your ears, but unravel and interpret the strange slurrings of our voices) just once would be to taste forever.
Keep your words close to your heart, as close as your analytical mind dares.
Don’t tell them.
They can’t possibly understand. Understand the underscores, the hidden messages, the meaning behind, between, through and around every letter you grind through your brain and out your mouth.
This is why I write.
This is why I breathe.
To be granted the immortality lovingly wrought through the sentences I bang out on a keyboard.