I feel like my current life is made up of late nights and words, so many words, words from me to everyone and everything. Some of those words are mine, some are on order, some are spoken, most are written...
I'm tired, so tired, so tired. Not of words themselves, but of the currents they form: articles and more articles on demand, whoring out my writing for a little more money, learning how to talk about anything and nothing. It's neither good nor bad; words, my words at least, are amoral. It's simply routine, acquired skill of the words of journalists. Not tiring until they are coupled with the rest: words for my friends, words for my penpals, words for my family, words for my partners, defending words, requesting words, careful words, carefree words. Unformed words lurking in the vision of future that is my dissertation and translation, my opus magnum, and the words screamed and sobbed into starless nights by ones who demand existence on paper when they were never allowed to live otherwise because I took their place. My being is made of ink.
Words used to be heavy, words carried worlds with them. But now there are too many of them, and they turn from ideas to markers in my hands. It's not wrong, it's not sad, it simply is--exhausting. Too many words.
Won't somebody share their silence with me?