Words are the means of expressing concepts and feelings, world-changing ideals and small details.
With words, I can convey information, persuade opinions, or paint not merely a picture, but a vivid experience in another human's mind.
But the most meaningful words are the ones composed without audience. The ones that bare the secrets I hide from myself. That closest of confidences, persistently calling forth—sometimes sweetly, other times with demanding compulsion—to throw off pretense and push further into the dark recesses for more substance, more truth, regardless if what's found is intricately and masterfully woven or a raw, dripping mass.
Revelation empowers the revealer over the result.
In loveliness, there is comfort. In offense, reassurance, if only from the privacy afforded by solitude.
To gather those shards in gentle, cupping hands and place them on the palms of another is an act that equals none other in the human experience. To share not my body or even my mind, but the only tangible expression of my soul.
