Words are dead and yet they carry life within them, like pills that encapsulate the life-saving substance in their cold dead plastic skin. Words, language… in my opinion one of the most impressive inventions of humankind, the one that fascinates me tremendously.
Words are in themselves only meaningful in the context of meaning we ascribe to them, otherwise, they are empty and meaningless and yet, they are maybe the most helpful thing we as a species have ever brought forth.
Without them, Lovers couldn’t surrender themselves to each other, they couldn’t pour their hearts into letters that transcend the limitations of distance.
Without them, there would be no jokes being told around the table and the joy and laughter that would echo through the room would go unheard and unfelt, what a loss that would be.
Without them, we couldn’t enjoy the dance of the poet’s pen on paper, onto which he poured his very soul during a dark night when Spirit breathed inspiration into his tired body.
Without them, a silent prayer of gratitude whispered into the night’s sky being carried by the winds could not reach its destination in the ethereal regions.
We talk so much, so so much, every single day, so much that we have forgotten the sweet taste of silence, we have forgotten, that silence has a language of its own and it sounds beautiful if we would be able to hear again.
But nevertheless, I love it, that meaningless blabbering coming out of our mouths.