Words.

I find it amusing that, of all the words in the English language (one needs only to lift a dictionary to realize the vastness of it) we continue to utter the same few choice words over and over. When given the opportunity to speak, rather than employ words that are beautiful, exotic, esoteric to convey their message, concern for the general populous and worry of making listeners feel unlearned keeps people from exploring the depths of literacy, from challenging the norm, and diving into the ocean of language that is at their disposal. Hundreds of years worth of literature to explore, words arranged and rearranged over and over, spoken words, written words, secret words whispered in the dark. And yet we cherish the simplest of these, lift them up, place them on pedestals, and say "It was a stroke of genius, arranging those words so perfectly." But was it? I could sit here and type for hours, putting words into all kinds of order:

"Eternal sleep in the eternal sea; wisdom and love can set you free."

"Sometimes, in all the cruelness of the night, we forget to dream."

"Age is such a strange thing. Those who don't know us define us by it. Those who do know us expect us to 'act it'. And yet inside of yourself one can quite easily forget it...age should not be defined by the amount of time that has passed but by the amount of life one has lived. Even the frailest of children can exhibit wisdom far beyond their years while adults of all ages, fatuous and obtuse beyond all reason, not only exist but thrive in society. I fail to understand the logic of giving people credence simply based on the number of years that they've been alive."

"It is only when you open you heart to the reality that dreams are more than a subconscious manifestation of ideas that you can truly let go of your inhibitions and experience that feeling of infinite bliss without having to enter another realm; but beware that you do not fall so deep into ecstasy that a nightmare slips in, or you could get lost in yourself forever."

"Bright eyes, lucky soul, and a heart of stone. Keep your sins hidden. Talk slow, dream fast, sky children never stay past dawn. Indulge in delirium, and toss me the key."

"Only the love of a forest child can save you now."

"Three weeks in this motel and they still haven't fixed my shower. The TV only has one channel, and the kids next door haven't eaten since I've been here. I'm down to my last $3, maybe I'll hit the jackpot tonight."

Now, all of these are 'poems' I've written, or pieces of them in some cases, so of course they mean nothing because I'm nobody. A lone voice speaking to an internet full of lost dreamers, critics, judges. But if I hadn't told you that, if I'd instead written a story of how I had moved into a house once owned by one of the greats, Cummings, Emerson, Millay, Dickens or Plath, and found a lone page, ripped from a journal, stuffed in a box in the attic, would it have meant something different? Would the words they arranged have held greater worth, deeper meanings than the words I arranged? Simply because we know them based on their ability to arrange words?