silences
I think I secretly believe that words are the key to making things real. In the beginning there was the Word. It's voicing what's inside that makes something real. That's the magic of the word--that the internal world is externalized through it. It's my need to profess, confess, obsess (Mike told me "internal rhyme is always cheesy . . ." but hey). I have this problem with realizing that the unspoken has just as much power as the verbalized . . .
Words draw attention to me like a spotlight . . . at least I want them to. Look at this public medium. . . But do they make my internal landscape a reality? Not really: it's more just that when I boast something I then (usually) feel the need to follow through on it. At least if I mention it enough.
But it's what I don't say, somehow, that is the realest of me. It's the part of me that slides out between the words, inadvertantly, through the chinks in my armour, that reflects my internal reality. not the one I would like people to believe exists, rather the one that's there all the time. the little insecurities, the small hopes and worries. Usually I don't speak these because I'm so afraid of making them real--of having to face them, of dragging them into the light. so they hide in the shadows. But you know what? Words aren't the only way of acknowledging something's existence, I have recently realized. In fact, there are many, often much more powerful ways. It is these I want to explore.