The real words are those which are, in their essence, a portrayal of what I feel or of what I felt. But how can words - letters - coincide with emotions, so colorful and vibrant and bubbling in a speed that the angleture of letters cannot reach?
How can inspiration - which is boundless and still bounded inside the mind - be reminisced into little black-on-white stick-figures of a language?
Hang-man of a real live emotion that is on the stake.
And then the man goes home and the emotion is let down from the high rank of inclusiveness, and it all shimmers back down into its lulled version of plain genuine calmness.
A distilled passion.
The real words come at night, so full of treasures and potential, so radiant and ready to let myself be whatever it is my mind's eye sees. All the Miriams.
All that water that I anchored into my little space of realizations and revelations.
All that earth, that damp earth and words my feet have collected and co-lected.
All the songs, ahhh the songs, and the notes and the thoughts and the fonts and the wants - all of them,
Thank you, my loves.