“How frail the human heart must be – a mirrored pool of thought.” -Sylvia Plath
My problem is that I love books. I love words – the way they ebb and flow, the way they make me feel – the images they create and stories they tell. I love words. The way they feel inside – whether they drip off lips, or fizz in the cheeks and make my nose wrinkle, or crisply bounce off the tongue. Communication is so tricky. The transfer and reception of feelings and thoughts between just two people are wrought with a myriad of individual filters – past experiences, genetics, perception and time. Is anyone ever truly understood? Is anyone ever truly known?
Religion, folklore, cliches` all examine the mystical and eternal importance of words. I am very talented at finding the perfect thing to say about five minutes too late, and often write better then I speak. Words I love, but often they fail me. I’ve come to expect that most people will misunderstand me – I can say one thing and they’ll hear the opposite. Here are my words, my heart, my truth. I apologize for the clumsy and sporadic sentences trying to express my well intended existence. Here is a collection of different sentiments of mine, as transparent as ever. Bring your own filter. Bring your own mirror.