All I want is words. Write, speak, type, feel them—forming lines, sentences, consonants, syllables, overlapping. Sound. Sonics.
I was the passenger in a Black Camry this morning. Arkansas plates. Delivered to the airport. I looked out of the window. The sky was blue, masked by the white of clouds, a patch over a peak, a tuft of hair. The road construction along I-25 had finally finished. New lanes, more space to criss-cross the asphalt. But every molecule inside the car and out, was filled with words. They were written down the interstate, across my friend’s face as she drove, in the rear view mirror. Every car was made of words, the Jemez range in the distance outlined by letterforms. And it started to creep up into my eyes, my fingers, my heart, my ears.
It was giddiness. It was limitlessness. I want to write. It’s belligerence. If my eyes didn’t see the world through words, I would be blind, deaf, dead. It is a violent feeling and I want to be as close as I can be to words. Words. Word.
I’d let them kill me if they could.