It is so much easier for me to express myself in writing. Spoken words always fail to make it past my tongue properly, wandering astray over my lips to the point where what I say is very rarely what I mean.
I mean what I write.
I think I write what I mean, most of the time.
Perhaps I should give up speaking.
Reserve the use of lips and tongue for tasting and other pursuits.
Carry around a pen to translate my heart and my mind instead.
I worry there would not be enough paper, and I would have to resort to inscribing my thoughts and feelings on other surfaces instead.
I might not be able to control myself when there comes a sentiment I simply must express, words howling over walls or doors, desperately needing to be read.
And I would live in constant fear of running out of ink.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.