Author: Emilia M PM
The title of children truly belongs to those of us who abuse the power of words.Rated: Fiction T - English - Poetry - Words: 564 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 2 - Published: 06-21-11 - Status: Complete - id: 2925559
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We hear words slip from people's smiling lips, but We also see them written on walls and signs, on packages in stores. When We can't speak, We write. No matter how far We roam from our origins, when pen and paper were symbols of wealth and status, We will always know the value of words.
Words are used for healing, but they can also be tools of violence. I knew the blasphemy of using words for weapons before I knew how to say them aloud. At tender moments, I arrested the words, and used the silence for mending. But now, the words are everywhere, because everyone knows them, and everyone hears them, now that we are no longer children who dress up and see a different version of the world. Now we know the energy words wield, and some grasp the knowledge like a sword of fire, and They sneer at those below Them who have quieted the words for gentle uses.
But we are still children, no matter where we go…high school. College. There is no sanctuary for the impossible Few that have the words in their hands, and see their beauty. There is no where to go, when Everywhere else is Somewhere else, and far out of reach. When the words seem to be the only way to speak.
The children in men and women's bodies who have abused the power of words…They are alone in their quest for power. Because We see what is already in Our possession. What We can already do. But We are Few, and They are Many, and We must hide to survive Their blind judgement.
I've seen much in my deaf world, where spoken things are too hushed to hear. And with the sights, I've made a new language, where I can hear everything.
But my ears to not reject the shameless bantering of the lonely Them. Before I knew the power of words, I let Them hurt me. In words They did not know, and did not care to nourish, They broke my brittle walls made to keep the cold out, exposing me to the elements of the outer world. I did not know the words.
After years of taunting, teasing, and bleeding, I knew the dark side of words, inside and out. But faith and the music of the light side sang to me more clearly than anything else, and soon I wore the words like gloves. In the world I used to see, people know me differently, or not at all. And this world is where I exist secretly. Knowing, hearing, and sporting a mask to hide the difference. I show fake pain when words are slung at me. Amateurs. They do not know words. They do not know how to use them. When the words hit me, I flinch, but inside I casually pluck the words from the air and fashion them into a beautiful portrayal of what I have seen or heard. And I chuckle, oh, silly boys and girls.
Words are heavy and hot, or light and cool, but they are nothing but ghosts, if you are a Them. If you do not understand, the words are arrows without bows, or birds without wings. No matter your age, you are only a child if you do not know the beauty of Words.