I hate words.
I know. I’m a writer and I’m not supposed to say something like that but, right now, I hate words.
I hate that the promises we make, both to others and ourselves, reveal our words as the weak things they are. Yet those same words, spoken in anger, take on a life of their own. They escape our lips propelled by the very worst in us, and wound like few other things can.
And then there are times when we say things with the intent to make ourselves be understood. We say things to proclaim “This is the extent of my pain!” and, in so doing, injure ourselves and cause all sorts of collateral damage.
And, like night follows day, comes the most pointless question there is:
“Why did I say that?”
Frankly, I’m out of words for certain things. I’m out words that promise or declare intentions. I’m sick of them. I have no use for them because I have never once done anything because I first said, “You’ll see! I’ll do this!”
When I decided to move to the Far East, I just did it. No “call to arms” was necessary. When I quit smoking, same thing. Even when I quit drinking. I decided and I did. Simple.
A long time ago, I told my wife. “Don’t pay attention to what people say, pay attention to what they do. That’s who they really are.” Suffice to say, I have not lived up to that piece of sage advice.
See what I mean?
