Digging for Meaning

Said A word , said, is like the air that carries it... there, but ever changing. You know it is there, but 'which' air? May be it was made of something else the moment it was said. But now the memory has mutated the word with memories and assumption. It dissolves into maybes and blank spaces. What were you saying? Sorry the word didn't reach my cognition. Maybe it crashed against my ear and fell down. Let me look for it, while you go on with utterly temporary utterances that die right after they are born. Without a keen ear, a spoken word is a still born child. Keen ears and intelligence are the oxygen for meaning making with words. Unless one writes them down.  A spoken word is seldom alone. It carries with it movements, loudness, intonation. They are made of worldviews and emotions... exceptionally unique worldviews and emotions. exceptionally untranslatable unique worldviews and emotions. The rational word is but a small actor in the grand theater of emotions an...

words. they fly out of an open mouth. mostly, without the brain noticing it. they are ever so light and free. spend all you want, there's always more where they came from. they might not always have a form, a meaning. but that does not mean, they are inconsequential. Like for falling leaves in fall (how imaginative.. to call a season by an act so obvious), there are some ardent gazers, keen and mesmerized with that act of falling... watching it accumulate. for most sane others, it does not warrant a look. the ardent gazers follow the falling, knowing fully well that the words have died the moment they were born out of utterance. the soul escapes with a sound, and the dead carcass floats bottom on to decaying heap. there are insects there. waiting. slimy, pestilent. they chew off one word, and then another bite from another and so on. all the time leaving their disgusting saliva all over. they are the rumourers. But they are the ones to create the only reality. the mulch. the mulch...

Whenever someone says ‘de-growth’ with all seriousness my eyes dart to the corner of the lips of that person with the alacrity of Bruce Lee’s hands. I await a slight quiver, the curve breaking into a wave. I seek an expression of doubt, of uncertainty about one’s own utterance: The sight of which gives me immense hope and fodder for a hearty laughter. If it doesn’t come along, my laughter turns into cough, the yuck muck which must be gulped down.