A Word is not just a word, not nearly, not ever.
Words are messengers, barefoot natives running along our dusty savannah roads and pathways, carrying scrawled letters and images in cleft sticks, slaloming between fallen mahoganies and elephant grass plantations.
No, a word is a living link between our many-hued, even rainbowy, brains and the object of our attention. Our words are formed in colours, smells and feelings, in our cerebral moon landscapes, they can come tumbling from a waterfall of memories or emotional landscapes - and they link us, and the object of our attention, with the bejewelled memories and emotions of our living days.
Words do smell, they move and enliven, they can tear, I've seen them slash a face, stem a tear. They mean everything, they are our true messengers.
We use words to be. We are our words and, as the expressions goes: they are us, so never again call a word just a word in my presence.
14 sep 2011
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