I am inundated, deluged, avalanched, flooded, caved-in, buried in words. Poetry, criticism, plays, ancient letters from stodgy dead men, essays, stories...they fill my thoughts like recurring waking dreams; like reciting the Hail Mary, my pen is a rosary, clicking and whirring in absent-minded ritual. Am I about to go into 17th Century British Poetry, or Early American Lit? Am I writing an essay? A reading response? A daybook entry? Should this be in iambic pentameter and rhymed couplets?
I see words all around me, piling and pooling beneath me, rising up and bearing me heavenwards, lapping at my nostrils and wavering at my eyes; words whirl in a grand amalgamation of thoughts unconnected by so paltry a thing as punctuation and conjunctions. I swallow in desperate gulps turns of phrase archaic and lyric and oft-insensible; I arch my back to float upon the rolling roiling press of words, I relax into them. I slowly and suddenly evolve gills to breathe in this elemental profusion, I develop a taste for their acrid saltiness, their exotic tang. I delve down now, twist and rush through through through the words which are my native land, my home my life and my reality; I arc through waves of words in a graceful glissade, rolling and porpoising with sheer joy. I let the words lull me, let them lilt in my synapses, wash to and fro in my ear canals like tides rising, tides falling, all under the sway of silver-shrouded Lady Luna.
My words here are my song, sung to fill the heavy, quiet spaces, that shrill and lovely discordia concors, that silence ringing with the wails of ghosts, the shades of words unspent and yet to be born, words that haunt me, beg me in tolling syllables to give them voice, to give them their due moment of elegiac song.
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