Day 50: March of the 500


It was always about the words.

That is clear to me now, with the benefit of pandemically focused eyes.  The tangible reminders surround me, piled high on shelves and stuffed low inside of drawers.

Traces to the vestiges of a youth hastily scribbled, now just ink fading into brittle yellow pages.  Frantically typed words, the jotted notes of an earlier middle age more neatly cataloged, but still ignored.  Recent rambling novels, unremarkable and isolated.

All just words.  All just the lingering remainders of relationships torn and years foolishly squandered.  All just captured emotions parading inside their paper prisons.

It was always about the words.

Words that are sometimes munificent.  Words that are sometimes dispassionate.  Words that are capable of building new worlds.  And words that can take those worlds and burn them right the fuck back down again.

Words are all I have ever been; words are all I will probably ever be.

The wrong words at the right time often speak tragedy.  But so can the right words at the wrong time.  It kills hearts.  It poisons minds.  It will strangle possibilities, choking off a timeline in the infancy of conception.

Every word a scar; every scar a receipt for the cost of experience.  Every experience the toll required for each new journey.  And I took those journeys and I have paid those tolls.  My many marks the balance paid on the universal tab of my karmic muse.

Because it was always about the words.

Those dark nights in Dublin.  And the even darker days in Derry.  The catastrophe on Salt Hill, overlooking Galway Bay.  Revolutionary heartbreak suffered for the sake of words promised.  And those sacrifices bleeding into friendships born in a shared brotherhood of mutual sacrifice.

It was always about the words.

Within the confines of a misguidedly broken love story, words provided the precarious foundation.  Some of them true; most of them were lies.  Far too often they were the wrong ones, fraught with unsubstantiated jealousies and the burning shame of misdirected expectations.

But still, it was always about the words.

Even now, standing guardedly on the precipice of a world opening back up, I find myself hungry for more.  Just one more paragraph.  Just one more page added to the story.  And I know the words I most want to see on those pages.

I want to know the name of that girl behind the mask.

I want to experience the elusive word published.

I want to hear a whispered endearment that finally sticks, given affectionately by a new character intersecting with my story to make for a better mutual ending.

I want to see the word friend more often.  And not just on an impersonal screen, but in the genuine embrace of a bonded humanity.  Or over a few pints shared.

I want these things because it was always about the words.

I want those new words because there is an old one that I am just so tired of having to write- goodbye.

About Grey Fox, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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