saintadatha

verbal form


I used to wish that I was made of words: That this course corporeal frame, necessary, concrete, and blunt, was all nouns solid and firm; that the extension of my core, the depth and colour and shape, my character, draped over that skeletal certainty, all folds and shifts, shadow and nuance, was shaped in elegant epithets and adjectives that wrap, wind, sway, and twist; that my movements, verbal at their root, were carved into the pages of history, my actions fleshed, crafted adverbially.

I used to wish I was words. I used to wish that my form would one day dissolve, that this curtain of certainty and limitation would fall and fold about my feet, and out I would step: pure word, pure thought, pure form beyond form.

Flesh is the extension, the result, the child of thought. Not the other way.