Herself loves words. Big words, small words, complicated words, simple words. When she writes, she may spend hours carefully selecting and rearranging just the proper words. There is a tremendous satisfaction -- a joy, even -- in identifying and utilizing just the perfect word.
She struggles when others do not focus as carefully on words. Try as she might, she cannot read between the lines. She hears only what is said, and while she can attempt to hypothesize what is behind the words, she is always uncertain. Silence is harder, for it can be even more difficult to interpret. She has learned the likely meaning behind some silences, but other silences are as unfathomable as the dark abyss.
Is it that she lacks sufficient imagination or mental speed to deduce what is hidden? She is frustrated by the opaque nature of others' words when the syllables dance before her. Do others find words translucent, with the colors of intentions and meanings glowing softly through? How? She is perplexed and stymied. Vexed.
She would be delighted if others would use plain words, with specific meaning and without subtext or cryptic agenda. That may be far too much to ask, though. She shall have to keep attempting to interpret. Such guesswork. Will she ever learn?
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