Some words flow easier than other.  They rush, crisp and merciless, from our lips, across a page, on a screen… they rush.  Sometimes, they stall, falter, bend our truths.  They’re the dark waters plaguing our minds.  Lately, my words have set off a chain of events- my storm- and there’s no coming back from it.  Guess what.  I’m a writer! Ta-da! These mo-fuckas are my bread and butter.  As with every writer, I can piss all over them at the worst possible moment. But, let’s take a step back, tap-dance towards steady footing, and see where it went wrong.

I have a penchant for speaking my mind.  My hands, unlike my tongue, have a filter. They don’t always listen; scribbling tiny script across a page. God created the world.  Seven days, including the rest, you know? A writer creates many worlds.  A writer tells many stories. Spin the yarn and see what happens. I should stick with fiction. Gets me in less trouble. I live for it.  Addicted to it. But, we don’t live in a box, and so not everything plays smoothly.

Words. Hateful words. Okay, so enough stalling. Recently, I let my mouth get away from me.  I said angry things; whether I’m in the right or wrong, really doesn’t matter.  I said them.  I also wrote even angrier words.  I drew a line and refused to let anyone cross.  See, some people think a line is just a dash, ranging from point A to point B.  I see lines differently.  An abstract separation that you can’t come back from.  That moment, I saw red. Part of me wishes the line hadn’t been drawn. Fuck it. It’s done.

What did I do? I rewrote the coming chapters in my life story. I wrote characters- presumably main ones- from my life. Oh sure, they are somewhere living their own stories, carving their own adventures. Maybe it’s better this way. Ah, I don’t mind so much. It’s sad, heartbreaking even, but that’s life.  It’s an ugly mess and the lines aren’t straight.

So what’s the point? What is the point… you have to understand the consequences in the words. I don’t know anymore. There are no masters here. We think we have a grasp on words until they screw us over. Humans are emotional creatures. Our words are the real masters. And, they do what they want.

Published by Stephen Smith