“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.”
― Stephen King, Different Seasons
Have you ever felt the moment pass without having said something that needs to be said, or written something that needs to be written?
It happens to me a lot at the moment. I can’t seem to hold onto them for long enough to give them voice. It has to be instant capture or not at all. Recollection never rises above a twisted image trying too hard to be something it doesn’t really know what is.
Words… inspiration… is a fickle thing, and I am struck by how fragile they can be. How they come out of the fog of everyday life in an instant and flare like lightening across the sky only to shatter and scatter again the next under their sudden awareness of themselves. Like the warmth of the Sun held suspended in ice crystals, doomed to destroy its own reflection.
Afterwards, there is only the sound of absence. The sense of a fleeting shadow that just couldn’t be held onto. Enough of an impression to remember seeing … something… but too faded a fragment to reconstruct and give it the voice it deserves.
Words are fragile. Forever seeking their own expression, the voice that will capture them at exactly the right time. Their interest in an unattentive audience, so useless to them, is fleeting. All too often they fall back into silence and cloak themselves in all the damn crap, we are left to excavate in hopes of finding them again.
Words are vain. They want an audience as much as we do.