“One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can’t utter.”
--James Earl Jones
I mentioned in another post that I feel like my words have betrayed me. Not because they didn’t mean what I meant them to but because I couldn’t use the vastness of them in my head. There they were, winged, weighty words and none of them were mine. They slipped and rolled around my mouth and all fell short.
It seems to be a habit lately.
There is, at times, an oppressive force. When I begin to spread my wings to soar, I see the thunderclouds rolling in. When I spring to take that leap, I find the water has gone missing in the pool below. I don’t believe these things are happening because I refuse to see the positive. Some things just are. Some things…let’s just say that as I believe in a Higher Authority, so too do I believe in a lesser one.
I’m not so self-centered to believe that all of these issues crop up just to hinder me. I’m simply not that important. It must be that “when it rains, it pours.”
But whatever the reason for the creeping darkness, I find that my one shield has fallen to the side; useless. My words. How often I’ve relied on them to express myself. How deeply I’ve needed them to give voice to both the golden joys and troubled sorrows of my heart. And when I can’t bear much more, I have sought them in my solace. But they’ve turned on me.
When I need them, they have vanished. When I don’t want them, they crowd me with a thousand shrieks that reverberate in my skull. No sound or distraction has silenced them. No threat or plea has tempted them from their hollows.
Even now, when I seek to twist them into explanation, they skitter like dead leaves and I am a skeletal tree. The sky is so far above me, though I reach and reach.
When I would apologize, those words become daggers against my neck. When I would clarify, those words muddle and mire. When I would proffer the deepest whispers of my heart to speak before there is not time left to do so, those words are snakes in my hands and dust through my fingers.
And yet I cherish them all the same. Without them, I feel barren. Though they wound me with their loss or abundance, I still need them. They are my cocoon. I hope to someday be a butterfly.
For now, I’ll just clutch them near and try to decipher them better.
What do you do when your words fail you?