Words swim in my consciousness and subconsciousness. They tell me to jump in, so I do. No, not jump in. I dive in, put both arms first, not both feet. Twisting myself into vibrant and vivacious flips and turns as I ready to slip smoothly in and descend into my mind. The words swarm towards me, a motley mix of angry, excitable, feisty pensive, indecisive, and a myriad of others that are waiting to be processed, refined, and set out on paper. But even if I spend my earthly life transferring them from my mind to a page, I'll still have a plethora of orphans waiting to be adopted into its home story. And sometimes my words aren't tractable and they decide to run away to the unmapped territories in my mind. Most of the time, they get lost and never find a way back. But occasionally, they return. And those words have the best stories to tell for they may still be young, but life has aged them. They may still be spitfires, but they are no longer imprudent, time having taught them to be concise. They tell stories of the battles and glories, hardships and failures, etc. that they slowly accumulated knowledge about to share later. These are my words. Some still are young and they haven't quite learned how to summarize, or how to be themselves. But time will teach and, eventually tell their fate. And all I have to do, is wait.
Chrissy G.
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