Writing is something I have loved since I learned how all twenty six letters worked together.
Being a child I marvelled at how all these letters were so small but could mean so much.
Words, wrapped in different voices, piled on page after page of books I have eagerly digested through my eyes.
I remember words clearly and more vividly than the people who have passed through my life.
They are less intriguing in many ways than the words that describe them.
I wish and I hope that words will one day come flowing from my fingertips so easily.
Not for glory and payment, that would be less than satisfying to the soul than I would like.
The words I wish to convey will be much more than that as I am more interested in guts than glory.
A part of me likes to blame procrastination and laziness for my lack of production on this desire.
But I have not admitted to anyone, least of all myself, that the reason is simple and shameful.
I have words, I have stories, I have worlds of beauty and characters so vivid and full of life.
There's magic and mystery, shocking intrigue and tragic or brilliant love all jumbled up in my mind.
I would share all these with the world and hope someone would love them as much as I would in forming them.
If there were a way to extract them in such a perfect order so I could share with all it would be pleasing.
Though, here I sit, brimming with all of this and my whole soul balks at the idea.
As I sit here I know it must be admitted or I won't be able to grow and move through this haze.
What stops me every time I think is simply a clenching fear of the reaction I would get.
The words I have in my mind seem as though not only words but letters that make up what I am.
Essentially I fear how the world would view me, as my words are me.
This is a realization I come to as I grow older and more mature.
The things I write seem strong if unorganized at times, and the words I speak taken as more than just words.
One day maybe I will be able to find the strength but as I sit I realize the time is not now.
But the day will come, when my soul can share what my mind has without fear or fright.
And I will strive for my own personal glory.

With respect to you,.. you have just made the point,.. they are just words. They don't actually mean anything.

Few problems in the world are solved through, or, because of them. Actions of people, hold power,.. not words.

It's good you find pleasure and solace in them. It's almost, the only use for them.

I couldn’t disagree more.

Life itself is all about words. Speech starts with words, recognition starts with words, education starts with words, idealism starts and spreads with words, and indeed you even used words to express your opinion.

there are no words.
there is no expression without words.
which is true?

is there not expression in a look, in a touch, in music
in the sounds and sights and sensations of nature

cannot the choice of words be the most important aspect of communication

heartbeats and eyes track
and warm red life surges
through me
try as i might
i must yet can't
describe you or me

words fall an ornate cage on nothing
yet icrafted
are woven into photographic clarity
a beautiful and accurate description
of what we all feel
independent of our native tongue

Last night as I was building this character I have in my head I realized that it was destiny for me to feel this way about words and writing. I share my birthday with The Bard himself and have been a life long fan of his works. (Shakespearean tattoo? I think so )

For me it's not so simple as all of these words being just words. I say things, or write things and I realize they'll mean something different to every person. Some people care deeply, while others haven't opinion or reaction to them. One day my words will be strong enough for me to make them legendary.

At least to me.

Thank you all for posting. I appreciate it very much