Tonight I used too many words that made too little sense while sitting on a river bank beneath galaxies made visible by dark. Nature’s beauty abided in voiceless authority.
We both like intellectual paths. And so monologues became our feet. She led and I followed, then we changed positions and ventured places we often only go alone.
I searched for revealing words, but only landed on synonym impostors promising clarity, as it appeared that verity had somewhere else to be and so dared to leave. Crickets composed primitive symphonies up in the trees.
She said words with an image in mind – an image formed by a world seen through perspective based on memories and convictions kept. The word was shared, but the image was her own.
To make meaning we played literary charades with verbal homonyms and then kicked off a scavenger hunt into the recesses of our minds.
Politics. Religion. Spirituality.
How could they be? But should they be?
“Oh, bifurcated West!” I thought, “Get your souls together and start making the connections from head to heart to soul to action.”
Our words don’t mean much of anything anymore, we concluded.
And so we have to learn some other language. Art speaks and music moves and poetry alters the inner landscape. I must compose something timeless!
She said we only need to lie less.
“And perhaps we should also hold our tongues,” I added, sheepishly.
After all, words are the source of most miscommunication.
No wonder the voice of God is silence.