They’re just words, after all. But I obsess over them. I scribble and erase and rewrite and add in and look again and ponder. Words dance through the wrinkles in my brain, sometimes ballroom, sometimes polka, sometimes tango. They make a racket and stomp their sharp feet and open their round mouths and as they raise up act after act I realize that their performance will never cease.

I read the words sent to me through space, little perfect letters relying on pixels to convey human emotion, leaving the agonizing interpretations up to me. And how carefully, painstakingly, do I analyze, pick and prod, wonder. Yes, I could wonder for years what one person meant by one specific word. In fact, I have.
It’s obsession, it’s unhealthy, but it is what I do. To find the perfect noun or verb, to write in the perfect perspective, to perfectly understand somebody else’s words, it consumes me. The words dancing in my head mock me, tease me, excite and thrill me, wine and dine me, inspire me and kill me.
I am a slave to the words, yet the words set me free.
So what am I to do but to follow them, write them, read them, and hope this time they’ll show me mercy?

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