Without Words

What is a writer without words?

What becomes of a soul trickling down onto paper if it doesn't quite stick?

A blur.

A vortex of fragments streaming by to quickly to grasp.

Too fleeting to get a hold of and too vague to register.

A core that's not solid, a lava-lamp imagery inside, held together by veil-thin walls. The metaphor of a person, living, laughing, loving.

Not quite real.

With thoughts being the key to existence the edges slightly dissolves when being eaten away by writers block.

To be without words is then truly a fate more grim than one of words wasted on minds not speaking the right language. For at least they are there, to be read, to be found, to be interpreted. At least they have the chance of having a purpose.

At least they exist.