Stephen Fry makes me smile. Have a look-see and a listen-hear…oops I mean here:
Fuck you. I would have ended the letter there but that would indicate I’m a lady with few words. Perhaps I’m a lady with few wholesome ones but I can assure you that I am never short of vile ones. The thought of you squirming while reading fuck you brought a tiny splash of delight to my day. I would have left you with those two fine words -words I cherish, words you despise but then that would give you a reason to reply and frankly I could give a shit for lack of a better word. You’d prefer “care less” but I could give a shit about your haughty uptight appreciation for clean words or your mundane use of them. And while you take a gander in your safe cluster of words I will go ahead and pick pocket any insidious, undesirably yummy word I can think of just to ignite the ball of fury within what you consider a skeleton with vital organs- one being a heart. Do you have one? How do you feel? I prefer soulless, blah blah boring empty carcass. It has a better ring to it. You may not think so. You’re dead inside and so are your words. They don’t have passion or an appetite. They’re not voluptuous or sensual, nor do they drive one to sink their teeth in them. They’re not filled with lust. They’re not thirsty. They haven’t got balls or an urge. They don’t chase you until you’re out of breath. They don’t ache, desire, or tempt. They don’t penetrate the mind with emotion. They haven’t got vitality nor do they bounce about with pizazz. In fact, your words shrivel up the moment they leave your mouth because they lack life. I suppose the only way to save your words from dying is to pop your bubble wrap containing them. I will free them. I will expose them to a tongue, which isn’t afraid to lather itself in shock and disdain- a tongue which pleasures itself in getting dirty.
The girl who plays with fire
A gallery of words displayed in her hand; what she will write hasn’t been planned.
A lot like her life.
Her pen moves on command, by a thought not molded by this world she sees, instead by a thought held as a secret by this girl and what she believes; a girl who does not live by the words she speaks but by the words she bleeds on a paper so white it loses its purity. The ink spreads intricately and imperfectly, where it’s allowed to be. The words she wrote are sacred, opposite of his temple of hatred. She is naked. She has come undone. One by one, one by one, words fill her world opposite of a reality she lives. She doesn’t give a shit. She imagines what isn’t real so that what is real can feel like something she imagined. She is damaged. An infliction of contradictions. She doesn’t give a shit. She takes a hit. Vulnerable and guarded, she is hardened. Exposed and closed, she takes a dose. Each word she releases into her veins travels from a needle filled with ink, numbing her and giving her the power to think. She feels freedom. She struggles with this demon. She calls it a poisonous blessing. Her pen does the undressing, of what is inside. Logic and emotion collide. Emotion wins and strikes her heart, she holds her words close so they can’t be ripped apart, like that day they tried to rescue her from her mind. They were denied. She couldn’t admit her thoughts to a world so blind. So her words are held safe and sound and bound, to a place, which can be closed and re-opened. Her words prove she can’t be broken, on pages, which have stayed intact and bound together; a life in words is a storm she can weather.
(Photo Credit: annstreetstudio.com)
I like words. I much prefer them in poetry, in songs, in stories. This is where words live beautifully and safely. They grow happy together and we, we grow fond of them. I don’t know what happened to words. When they became ugly. When we stopped believing in them and in their beauty. The words, which roll off our tongues and are formed by our tender lips strike, impose, and come with malicious intent. Often words tend to lose their beauty, especially in conversations between two people, who discuss hatred and cruelty.
I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation in which words reflected catastrophe. You spoke those words loudly. Why did you? Words, which are beautiful, must be spoken with pride, for everyone to hear. Not words which are brutal and destructive. When did it become apparent to you to use such words so openly? I suppose you have no idea what it’s like to be betrayed by words. To have them used against you. To be pinned up against the wall and forced to hear them; your mouth covered from speaking words in defense.
In ill repute, I write this letter to you. Everything has been shed above. Perhaps reading them will do more justice than hearing them. I fear that defensive words, which are spoken, sometimes do not do justice. They are said and then they flutter away into dismay. Words, which are spoken ferociously and not gracefully, sometimes lose their importance. I have choked on your words and have wanted to throw them up. They made me feel ill; however, what those words mean to me will eventually fade away, as do the effects on a person. I have learned not to allow disgusting words, like the ones you have spoken, to impose on the beauty language can be. I do have one request: in the future, please do not taint them with anger, violence, and humiliation. If you so choose to, please confine them to your mind and not to the open world. Words are meant to be beautiful. Seek beauty in words instead.
A disgruntled listener