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| Words by Eighty-3 at deviantart |
Words. They drive me crazy. No matter how hard you
try, no matter what you do, no matter how careful and precise you try to be, they
slide away; they do their own thing.
Because what you can’t ever control is how another person will read
them, will interpret them. It’s why
emoticons are so important in social media, on forums. End it with a J and it’s all okay (or not). But, really, emoticons aren’t
enough. You can’t express tone when you
write. Sometimes I think we need to
write as if we were writing novels… adding in the adverbs (against all advice
to the contrary) *smiling wanly*. Do you know what I mean? *small sad voice pleadingly, brow furrowed*
Music is purer, not so open to misinterpretation. *relatively certain tone* Or
is it? *frowns* The listener can so easily pull
out one lyric rather than another; what one person perceives as a positive note
will be seen by another as a negation. It’s why one song can mean a myriad
different things to each and every person who listens to it.
What we really need is a way to beam emotion and intent straight to other people. That can be done on a one-on-one basis, if both parties are attuned or understand other dimensional working (though I am not always entirely sure about that either nowadays *sad sigh again*). But expressing one's intent, one's feeling, to a mass audience isn't possible or *pause, ponders* probably desirable, come to think of it. Maybe other people need to put their own interpretations on things. Maybe there are reasons for misunderstandings, for missed communications? Maybe the misunderstandings are there as mirrors? *really don't know, just stabbing in the dark here*. Maybe they help us grow? And growing is good, right? *asking, not remotely telling*
Anyhow *with small, not irritated, just sad, sigh;
in resigned tone*. I thought I’d been gone long enough, been down deep enough.
I thought I was done with the underworld for just a little while. *long pause while looks out
of window at soft rain falling, mist over the valley, leaves turning yellow, ochre
and copper, breathing consciously, feeling deep yet strangely good pain in heart*.
I tried being back in the world, tried to smile and
talk and be normal but it felt like I was outside myself, watching a puppet
moving jerkily, on strings. I really had nothing to say; I have nothing to say.
Because, see/hear/feel, right now, I'm only half-cooked (or half-baked, yeah, yeah, I'll say it so you don't have to *smile, yes really, smile*). And that’s
okay, really it is…*nods, trying to convince self as much as anyone else*.
This morning the path was slippery, slick. I felt
like I could so easily fall. The big
field was no longer empty; cows stood watching.
The path was strewn with shit. Go figure *rueful smile*. A friend said
she’d dreamed of me, twice…with shelves full of dust. And so I took the books that had been
gathering dust and started to read. And the
synchronicities started crashing in again, one after another, again and again
and again and again. Just too too much.
*awe, wonder, fear, trepidation, uncertain to the core*. What the shit is going on? I don’t
understand.
Whatever it is or isn’t, I realised, *big deep sigh*
that I had come back too soon. I have more I have to do. Back to the crucible I
go. Honestly, don’t worry – it’s okay. It is what it is. Byss; abyss.
