I struggle with words.
Words are helpful, but they are also limiting.
I don’t see the world as limited. Yet I appreciate the need to limit.
If I say “car” you know what I mean, but the chances that we are thinking of the same thing are infinitesimal.
If I tell you my 10 year old got lost in the forest, you might be worried. You might even consider reporting me to CPS when I then tell you that it took every ounce of my being not to laugh hysterically when he told me he was worried he’d have to spend the night lost in the forest.
There are a million words to describe me, yet, none of them really do. I am a woman, 5’8ish, with brown hair, brown eyes. I’m in my 40s and a mom. I talk a lot but never really say anything. OMG I’M SARAH PALIN.
Every day I tell my boyfriend “that’s my favorite thing ever.” My favorite thing about him is that he has never once told me that ALL the things can’t be my favorite. He just tells me that his favorite thing about me is all the favorite things I have.
Words are a starting point. Sentences help with clarity. Words are lost on familiarity. I can use a million words and probably leave you less certain of what I mean.
How can I be the girl who is 100% in from the word go, and also the girl who is so incredibly cautious, that at times it’s a hindrance? I believe in love at first sight. This is not just in the area of romance. I see a million things a day, and every once in awhile I see something that I LOVE. I don’t know why I love it, I just know that I do. I have friends that I knew would be my best friend from the first time we met. Sometimes they agree, sometimes the police get involved. Ok, sometimes they agree and sometimes I get my heart broken. The words in my head tell me that I’d get my heart broken a lot less if I would just tone it down a bit. I can’t explain to the words in my head, that doing that would be impossible for me.
The words tell me that I can’t love the stupid fucker because there are a thousand reasons not to.
The words tell me that I shouldn’t talk to homeless men in Central Park at dusk.
The words tell me that taking in drug exposed orphans will ruin my life.
The words are all technically correct.
The words are wrong.
There may be a thousand reasons the words can give for me not to love the stupid fucker, but the words fail to come up with the reason that I do. I could try to force the words to understand, but the fact of the matter is words are self limiting.
The words are probably correct that I “shouldn’t” talk to homeless men in Central Park at dusk. The words are probably wise to tell me to not wander and to get back to the hotel, but the words would have missed a very special moment.
The words were right, that taking in drug affected orphans would fucking suck, but the words would have missed the best thing that ever happened in my life.
The words want to label.
The words aren’t who I am. While the words can describe me, they can never define me.