word-spinning

Weaving, spinning, crafting words all week. Today, my brain decided to grind to a halt. No more words, please. The sky needs no explanation. And neither does Lucy’s beauty.

Word smithing is a very important part of my life, a key to my survival in a world full of words – from meaningless, vapid chatter in noisy social parties, to wave upon wave of ponderous academic parlance, words are such an essential aspect of neurotypical life. There is so much to say and not enough words to say it all with.

This is when we should look at different communicative channels, different paradigms for expression and conveyance of meaning. Is it so necessary to “talk words” so much? Music and all its tonal-rhythmic-patterned richness can be a language that transcends  the weighty worded domain. Just as our senses may provide yet another realm of communion with Beingness.

By and large, I enjoy the exercise of ‘wording’ – it is, to me, like creating physical installations, painting large canvases, working with colorful threads of all textures. Some days, however, I long for a non-verbal respite, my brain recoils from that dimension, and I feel the clanging, clattering of my chains, a tired little mouse tethered to a snoring mammoth: I am all too aware that my very survival depends on how well I can embroider words.

Angel...

Angel…

spinning, spinning, spinning
tapestry of silver, golden threads
baubles of words
semantic meanings
leaving my senses bereft
pebbles in my soup
spiders in my boots
crunching alphabets
inside dense muddy soup
my angel reminds me
it’s time to stop
and so imbibe
from living waters
calm oasis
warm communion
inside a realm
that needs no didactic
for joy

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