I love them. I love to soak in the soothing warmth of them and then wrap myself in their cashmere softness. Sometimes I inhale a perfect cluster of them that clears my head in a eucalyptus rush. Sometimes they come at me aggressively, all sharp angles and pointed jabs. And they hurt.
They have such power these gangs of letters. They can make you cry with joy or pain, they can make you laugh out loud – sometimes a tight chuckle, sometimes an involuntary snort. They can clutch at your heart and stop your breath. And it’s all a matter of context.
On Monday I was gobsmacked by ‘incurable’ and ‘manage’. I like the word ‘gob smacked’, it’s fun to say and it’s meaning is unambiguous. It means shocked, amazed, dumbfounded and it’s origins are either Irish or Scottish. I’ve been in a bit of a daze since those two word-bombs were dropped on Monday. Just to clarify, the diagnosis was not mine. A slip of a letter and dear old dad is no more. But not yet. Not quite yet. There is still a fight to be fought, even if the victor is a foregone conclusion. We will make Death earn his due. In the interim I will take solace in words… and pictures and art and music and all creative expressions that are notes from the soul. But words are my default.
Words, words, words.*
Shakespeare always nails it.
*Hamlet
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