A Sign from the Petrified Forest

A Sign from the Petrified Forest, johndockus, jpeg 2

Words don’t come easily to me.  If only they flowed through me like a river from the ocean, but for long stretches I turn so dry and barren I become mute.  Out of ruins and rubble I push each rough and irregular sentence like a boulder up a hill, exhausting myself trying in a clearing at the top to create my own place of worship, my own Stonehenge.  There’s not so much freedom in words as we’d like to believe.  I feel crushed under the weight of all their possible combinations and meanings.  So many words tumble forth out of the confusion of ideas and make sense only loosely or by chance.  Commonly used phrases are pushed around like the upside-down cups in a shell game still played after the ball has been lost.  Insignificant words multiply and thicken around more substantial words, creeping like vines, proliferating like kudzu.  One must hack through a jungle of cliches.  I doubt any word exists undiluted and in its original power.  Not one word exists so absolute that it never comes down and gets itself mixed up in the crazy affairs of human beings, including the word “God”.

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