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So many words of the English language I've dumped here. Writing, fast and furious, careless and arrogant about my ownership of the birthing process of sentences and paragraphs--so many word children, causing global warming, oceans rising, as those children drown, or spill over, screaming as they are launched over cliffs, and fall stuck into dark ravenous cracks, or perhaps some fall endlessly for eternity, into a lonely, bottomless and sinister abyss. Who knows what kind of monster I am?
I've spent precious time in the fool's errand of going after these children, only to do the same with those I find.
But I am an ignorant child, in a sandbox of letters, gathering up, filling and dropping them over the edge, digging up more for my consumption, then filling, emptying, digging some more; my dump trucks overrun with the same words many times over, filling drafts and drafts and drafts, poured back into the sand again, falling back into the abyss, irretrievable, yet always crusading to find them again, deluding myself in a search for treasure even when my nose burns with the smell the rot of garbage on my hands. I deny they are corpses.
I never actually make eye contact with the children.
I will no longer look for the lost word children.
I will no longer call them children. I release myself to rename graveyard to dump.
I will no longer sort garbage pretending I am picking stars out of the sky. I'm tired of all impossible tasks, but especially this one.
I will return to filling and spilling to my heart's content, without the need to find them again. I will save keeper-ship to the curators and librarians, so that I may just do my little job of filling and emptying, until something decides to form itself into a sand castle, or maybe a volcanic island made of glass.
Until that time, I let my writing pour into the sands of time, live in a forgotten no man's land. I let notebooks rot and fill the closets, with no need to tidy or purge, (even if it is trendy), sure to extract the best bits. I let bytes fill up a computer. I free myself from imprints of mine living forever on the internet until the world blows up.
I let them take on their own life or death in the ether or in the firmness of an eternally locked firewall. I am no longer willing to parent them any further. If they've run away, they've run away. Let them go. It they are falling in eternity. So be it. I wash my hands of what happens to them once they fall, once they hide.
Let me live with fresh words, that want to grow out of now. No more dragging a confused and lost sense of a no man's land into the future, taxing my soul with baggage fees. I let the words sleep or continue in their parallel realms if they are so lucky, but without anything owing from me, just a simple gratitude to them for the moment they played in that special part in writing at that time, but no more credit than that. No more puppy dog eyes, or shiny promises.
Goodbye words from and for another time. See you if you creep back on your own into the moment at hand, but otherwise thanks for being so heavy that I finally cut bait, done fishing for you, done spending my days obsessing about your importance and relevance or let's be honest, irrelevance.
And for now I will stop my quest of immortalizing words that belong in the word dump. I will no longer organize and sift through garbage. I will honor my life's more potent desire, to seek out more beautiful vistas of now, no longer tethered to stories and characters that never made it off the chopping block, even if my procrastination is to blame for their demise. No more holding onto how I could have saved them. No trying to find them and resurrect them as my eternal struggle,
while my life rushes by.
I let their destiny be theirs once and for all.
RIP words. I will remember you fondly as many things, noble, beautiful, special and poignant, but if I am honest, also confusing, ill-formed, impish at times, and sometimes a little melodramatic. Goodbye. Good luck on your adventure.