I fret at times over my words, on what they mean, how they’re perceived. On sunny days they’ve kept me caged, iron bars over the truth. Especially recollections of letters, the ones from the heart. Guilty of thinking they were always too much. Did they provoke a scare? An addled mind, that thinks and cares disproportionally, perhaps slightly out of touch. So silence comforts the soul, hesitation gripping the throat, breaking fingers, fear to speak and express.

Do you understand? Maybe you don’t and that is the point. It doesn’t matter if they are disregarded, brushed off as lint on shoulders. It doesn’t matter if they are slapped out of the way, treated like a mosquito that buzzes around your head looking for blood. If they are taken for granted, as easily as the air that fills your lungs, take a step forward, bask in the sun.

They were never meant for you or whomever. I’ve always believed words are spells, an energy for something that takes very long to return. Maybe it goes bust, it doesn’t land on a perfectly manicured tarmac. Ideas form and not always will they be understood, much like the meaning of love and life. It’s a whirlpool that eventually will draw what you put out, in.

Such is life, everything has a film on it anyways, a filter gone grey with dust. A mask that is worn so well, the real human of flesh and bones forgets to exist. It appears easier that way, not to dwell. But I digress, it’s the illusion that matters most, correct?

But those words have always been seeds for a much larger tree. And large trees take time to grow. Patience and care and love.

My words, they are meant for me, in all their joy and sorrow, they set me free.

-A.Garcia