My world is made of words;

words that float through my mind and through my hand -

words that peel off the page and become vibrations -

words that have shaped my sense of self and my dreams.

I whisper words to myself as my hands unconsciously tap a rhythm on the table -

one, and, two, and, three, and, four, and -

and they conduct me as I form rhythms on the drum set.

 

I let words steer my fingers across the keys of the piano -

sforzando, diminuendo, staccato -

and I listen to the rise and fall of the A's and C's and E's around me.

I follow words as they spout from the mouth of my dance teacher

leading me across the studio floor.

They later flow from my memory -

to the ends of my limbs-

and control my movements,

whether they are graceful and poised or erratic and emotional.

I absorb words as they twist and twirl around me

in a busy classroom

when I am silent and alone.

I regurgitate them when I have carefully constructed the courage

to walk across the deteriorating bridge that rests between me -

and friendship -

and if that courage evades me

(as it is bound to occasionally)

I take comfort in the words on a page.

Words guide me at my best and at my worst:

when my jaw is unconstrained by the usual muzzle that clamps it shut

and I am free to voice my opinions and identity,

and when my voice fails me;

when nothing makes sense -

when the world seems to disappear -

when things are too heavy to burden the air with -

I reach for a blank slate to pour the backlog of words onto.