Language. We take talking for granted. Using our hands for interpretation, a creativity around an emotion, but no matter what the dance the words come pouring out. Do we speak to soon? Ideas interpreted with or with out compassionate thought? To speak before we can convey our hearts true desires, out loud? What if we had no voices except the voices deep inside where we didn’t have to think words, or bullshit (excuse the essence) the ideas that we have without balancing out a feeling. True feelings, where no one or nothing is egged with our ego.
Spoken word we take it for granted, and so I write.
Sunflowers lined the broad path, smells of a sweet perfume waffled between the buzz of bees. numerous birds in flight nesting in pine trees, on top of local restaurants and roof tops.
Her feet shuffled along absorbing the hum of the beaten road. Ants moving furiously underneath. Vibrations from the ground below climbed from toes to ankles mixing natures ingredients with cement, migration in motion.
Sparking eyes filmed each frame, her smile filtered out the unwanted verbs, expressing an eagerness to dance. The body in complete delight of the exchanges taking place, she recognized the ideas without conversation. The ears tuned into hearing, spontaneously ready to record speech, she listened intently to the world passing silently through her own. Discovering, in her own words, her hands painted a picture articulate and sincere. Her voice remained unused voided by a commitment to speak orally.
She folded her fingers into a language of verse. No vocal cords, mouthing speech without tones, a reverberation, quivering in emotion. Appendages performed miracles shaping passion without movement from her lips. She stated fact and fiction, reading the mind yet speaking no words.
Her emotions a series of messages written on note pads, newspapers and dirt lined paths in the park. Mimicking a mime she reached out to an audience only touched by inner worth, the details described in her smile. She consumed her life in an absorption of activities listening intently, visualizing more, then her eyes saw daily. She learned to understand her silence with each beat of a heart filled with fingers, that moved in advance of her own grace.
The path continues to be her vision, her compassion her self worth. The birds flew about unconcerned of the checkerboard picnic blanket, the basket of food for thought and her belly and the song that she sang in her heart. A land so plentiful without speaking, within a voice without words.