How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.
― David Foster Wallace, The Pale King
Sometimes, the words bubble up and out. Some distant emotive precipitation -- whether a quiet rain or a fierce hailstorm -- carries the words underground, a silent spring, until they find a point of access into the world and pour forth in all their multitude. You can almost smell the creosote in the soft humidity that breathes across the land.
It still surprises me when the word flood yields no verdant growth. No sprig to gain purchase in the newly-moistened soil. No small desert flower. Perhaps it is too much all at once, and the seeds of dialogue are washed away.
I gather the word water back into myself, then, and await next time.