Debonair/ Without Words

Not much adventure writing to post these days. How about some musings instead?

Without Words

Why this desire to form a language of what is?

Always giving life to words that might rather be unsaid?

Why this need to express, to verbally transmit, to define; to create the metaphors that words allow?

How tainting is this act of always making symbols?

What of the risk of mundane projections and ugly distortions?

What if we let the words rest?

Oh, but how we welcome agile tongues to caress and embrace the visceral experience.

And how else to validate knowledge when we stop making words?

Is it not words telling us we are alive and that love is greater than the mere language we have to convey it?

And what of the fear that love could die by words unspoken?