Woe is me that I might be human

For once I seem to be at a lack of words to fully express myself. I want for a larger vocabulary and more full understanding of verbiage and usage so that all can understand me. There is a silence that is deep within myself that is like dark calming waters, waters so deep that even though the water is crystal clear you cannot see the bottom. For me the silence is deafening. There is something that lurks beneath the surface that stirs and causes ripples in the water, but never breaks the surface. What is this beast that roves inside of me, deep, deep down below where it cannot be found to be named? Is this beast truly a beast, or does my fear of the unknown make it a beast instead of a muse or benign creature? Silence is my only recourse. In silence I make my refuge; it is the one place where I cannot hurt myself. What right do I, as a mere fallen being, have to interject these little witticisms that cause people to see themselves as I see them? I wish I were as stoic in my silence as I would like you to believe. Alas, I cannot even keep a promise to my self, that my hard earned silence would do more good than evil. Words spill forth from my lips, unbidden; words torn from my self that I would rather not utter. Words, which have the possibility to do far more harm than good.

Even though I am silent, words are my constant companion. I eat, think, sleep and dream words. 'They are like honey on my lips, they are like water to my soul.' Daily I steep myself in their familiar fragrance; I drink them in like hot tea on a cold winter's night or a iced drink on a hot summer's day. They are my comfort, the one place where, even though I am silent, I am allowed true freedom; the one place where I am who I believe myself to be, where my dreams and wishes come to fruition. I love the place that words take me and who they allow me to be, but if I am silent what joy can be truly derived from them? Are words not meant to be spoken aloud, to be read with passion and feeling in tone and motion? If they are, then my silence is in vain and all is for naught. But, if I take solace in the fact that what I do not say does not cause harm, am I really betraying my calling? These are the questions that plague me day and night: do I not have a responsibility to my words and the actions and response that they cause? But do I not also have a responsibility to words themselves? I would dare not keep a wild bird locked up in a cage and clip its wings just so I could look and admire it, so the same it must be with words which are just as wild and beautiful as the creatures our Creator placed on this earth. I am torn between the two absolutes that I know to be true; to which do I owe the more responsibility, and to which do I owe my allegiance? That, my friends, is the conundrum that I face.