Chasing. Losing. Stumbling. Wounds are festering. Kids are yelling. I’m yelling back. Plate crashes, omelet goes in the trash. I’m losing.

I’m too mad at words. (Worms, Roxanne.) People’s words. My words. God’s words. My brain doesn’t think in words. Words are not the best medium of communication. There are too many interpretations of words and combinations of words, too many languages, alive and dead.

I want God to read my thoughts, and give me something. Something.

I want to understand why people say their words, when they are clearly not the words they want to say. I want people to understand the words I’m trying to say, not the ones that come out of my mouth.

I’m chasing. I’m teaching the use of words that are elusive. I’m teaching meanings that are not pumapasok (entering). They lick the icing off, but don’t delve into the cake, never realize the whole for the sweetness of the glaze. They see what it looks like, round and tall and snow-capped, but never experience the spongy, squishy, pocketed interior. Never understand the complexity of the entire combination. They say “hate” and think they are saying “dislike” or “anger.” They say, “I just have to…” when they mean, “I am unwilling to stop for you or anyone.”

They ignore me. (They are ignorant?) They do not respond, if my words are not to their liking. I yell. Then my words are surely not to their liking. I yell, threaten. My threats are meaningless, even to me. I say things I do not intend. I think things I do not say.

I am afraid of my thoughts. They are not my friends.

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