It was infatuation - the way it started. A spell I didn't even realise being woven around myself and them. Words. For as long as I could remember they held me in their thrall. Made me safe. Took me away. Freed me. Enabled me to explore. To climb out of my skin without really having to climb out of my skin. To belong, when I so often felt different and unable to relate.
Written words. Words in a melody. Spoken words. I loved them all. I would take them at face value (words in conversation, not the latest fiction novel I'd be totally absorbed in or the catchy lyrics to my latest favourite song). This was more than just my own personal brand of gullibility. It was the weight and credence that I gave words. It was how, personally, it would take every earnest particle I had to express anything remotely emotional such that I almost felt like they were being dragged from my very soul when I said them.
"Thank you."
"I'm sorry."
"I love you."
Perhaps it is this that made me believe that someone else's words were pieces of themselves too - in the same way that mine were little pieces of my very soul. If I said a word... used a word... you could bet your life on the fact that I meant it and there was no hyperbolic use intended.
As I grew older, I grew more comfortable handling these precious pieces of my self. Expression became easier. The words would flow from my pencil, my pen, and then the keyboard - like there was a direct pipeline from my feelings to my fingers. And, being as obtuse as I am, it took me too long to realise that few people had the same respect and relationship with words.
It started with the small disappointments: the cavalier promises made by those I treasured more than my words.
"It won't happen again. This is the last time, I swear it."
"I'll be there, no matter what."
"You'll always be special to me."
I know. You must think me foolish. But I believed.
Every. Single. Word.
I grew more disillusioned with words when they became whispers behind my back, taking another form when they finally arrived as formulated stories to my face. Some grew chasms between myself and others that I fear I will never be able to cross. The thing with words spoken about you, when you're not there, in any measure of innocence, is that the impact grows exponentially hurtful when they are eventually repeated to you. I suppose the good thing is, that by then, I had lost a little faith in the meaning of words, so they hurt a little less. A smaller knife twisting my heart around in my chest.
To add to it, were the platitudes I had begun saying at work - an occupational hazard of being in the service industry and of having at least the semblance of etiquette.
"You're most welcome."
"Thank you."
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
Don't tell me you mean these things every time you say them.
My love affair with words dissolved. Effortless expression became a distant memory such that even formulating two sentences for an email became a chore. It still is. I began to regard words with suspicion, examining each one as a potential threat. I clad my brain in armour, and my weapons were scepticism and cynicism. I became scared of becoming spellbound. And then the words stopped altogether for a while.
Oh, I could express the day-to-day stuff. But my outlet had disappeared. I was no longer a jukebox marrying songs I'd heard to a current feeling or situation. And my mode of catharsis - writing - became a tedious chore. I became clammed up - literally. Don't get me wrong, I've never been a sparkling conversationalist, but words began to die on my lips.
The thing is, the fault is mine. I gave them too much credibility. As my love for them returns at a painstakingly slow pace I'm aware that they mean different things to different people, and mean little if one doesn't look at the context of action that they are spoken in. And no two people express themselves in the same way. So, I'm a little lighthearted when I come across words now. A little patient... I wait to see if the actions meet the words. And you know what? It's perfectly okay when they don't. I may not always like it, but I'm better prepared than I was. They don't have that power over me as they did before, which is bittersweet... but hey, they are only words. I do believe there's a song to that effect... (the jukebox is slowly coming back to life too).
Written words. Words in a melody. Spoken words. I loved them all. I would take them at face value (words in conversation, not the latest fiction novel I'd be totally absorbed in or the catchy lyrics to my latest favourite song). This was more than just my own personal brand of gullibility. It was the weight and credence that I gave words. It was how, personally, it would take every earnest particle I had to express anything remotely emotional such that I almost felt like they were being dragged from my very soul when I said them.
"Thank you."
"I'm sorry."
"I love you."
Perhaps it is this that made me believe that someone else's words were pieces of themselves too - in the same way that mine were little pieces of my very soul. If I said a word... used a word... you could bet your life on the fact that I meant it and there was no hyperbolic use intended.
As I grew older, I grew more comfortable handling these precious pieces of my self. Expression became easier. The words would flow from my pencil, my pen, and then the keyboard - like there was a direct pipeline from my feelings to my fingers. And, being as obtuse as I am, it took me too long to realise that few people had the same respect and relationship with words.
It started with the small disappointments: the cavalier promises made by those I treasured more than my words.
"It won't happen again. This is the last time, I swear it."
"I'll be there, no matter what."
"You'll always be special to me."
I know. You must think me foolish. But I believed.
Every. Single. Word.
I grew more disillusioned with words when they became whispers behind my back, taking another form when they finally arrived as formulated stories to my face. Some grew chasms between myself and others that I fear I will never be able to cross. The thing with words spoken about you, when you're not there, in any measure of innocence, is that the impact grows exponentially hurtful when they are eventually repeated to you. I suppose the good thing is, that by then, I had lost a little faith in the meaning of words, so they hurt a little less. A smaller knife twisting my heart around in my chest.
To add to it, were the platitudes I had begun saying at work - an occupational hazard of being in the service industry and of having at least the semblance of etiquette.
"You're most welcome."
"Thank you."
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
Don't tell me you mean these things every time you say them.
My love affair with words dissolved. Effortless expression became a distant memory such that even formulating two sentences for an email became a chore. It still is. I began to regard words with suspicion, examining each one as a potential threat. I clad my brain in armour, and my weapons were scepticism and cynicism. I became scared of becoming spellbound. And then the words stopped altogether for a while.
Oh, I could express the day-to-day stuff. But my outlet had disappeared. I was no longer a jukebox marrying songs I'd heard to a current feeling or situation. And my mode of catharsis - writing - became a tedious chore. I became clammed up - literally. Don't get me wrong, I've never been a sparkling conversationalist, but words began to die on my lips.
The thing is, the fault is mine. I gave them too much credibility. As my love for them returns at a painstakingly slow pace I'm aware that they mean different things to different people, and mean little if one doesn't look at the context of action that they are spoken in. And no two people express themselves in the same way. So, I'm a little lighthearted when I come across words now. A little patient... I wait to see if the actions meet the words. And you know what? It's perfectly okay when they don't. I may not always like it, but I'm better prepared than I was. They don't have that power over me as they did before, which is bittersweet... but hey, they are only words. I do believe there's a song to that effect... (the jukebox is slowly coming back to life too).
Posts
That's so beautiful goodmood masala! Delightful read of words that are put so beautifully!!! Love it
ReplyDelete