Words...words...the letters of them press against my skull and whirl around behind my eyes, clamoring to be heard.
And I'm tired. Tired of the words, of their voices pounding through my shoulder blades and tearing at my temples.
I'm an imperfect translator for them. And the imperfections and faults sit heavy on my chest.
They're drowning me.
But I can't imagine life without them.
They came slowly at first; mere copies and echoes of words I had heard. But once they found me, they flooded into my life; whispered - or screamed - their stories into my brain, no matter where I turned. And my hand itched to write them all down.
Back then, I was blissfully ignorant of the weakness of my translations. I had thought only I had the power to take these words and transfer them for the rest of the world. I had believed only I was able to see these words. And I relished in the fact.
How could I have been so ignorant?
I have no talent. This is no gift. These words plague me; they taunt with countless beauties, knowing full well I lack the power or strength to write them down.
It's driving me mad.
I see them, bright, vivid, colorful and full of life. But when I transfer them to a page, into ink and graphite...they pale and die in the light.
There is no cure.