There is much to be said about the power of words, of the writing and the writer.
They mix, yes, a heady mix, and fill you with thoughts of another.
They make you feel something, anything.
Or if poorly scribed, nothing, nothing at all.
For me, the words I scribe are both me, and not me.
They call to me, and push me away.
They want to be mine as long as I write them.
If I do, they flee me like a plague sweeping down on the unsuspecting masses.
They become either articles of triumph or of bitter failure.
Symbols of each and every decision I have made.
And yes there are moments,
The moments where words are not written quickly or carefully enough
So they flee.
Far, far away.
But those that remain,
Ah yes, those that remain.
They can be worth it all.
Or worth nothing at all.