Speak, that I may see you

Like an exultant roar from the pages of a book, or a soothing balm from an online voice. Seen and felt rather than heard, but every bit as heartening.

Like the babbling of strangers, or noisy chatter from the TV. Audible yet detached. Immaterial, yet the comfort is no less real.

Conveyed through action, just as profound. A subtle nod of the head as if to say you are familiar and worthy of acknowledgment. A warm embrace in moments of self-doubt, saying you are a friend and no one, at this singular instant, is worth more.

I do not underestimate the power of words. On the contrary, I revel in it. In a rare but welcome state of clarity and virtue, I wield it. For the most part, however, I am a mere spectator. At best, a dilettante.

In the silence--- of a blank page, of solitude, of loneliness--- I crave it.

Speak to me.

The thrill

Touch is thrilling, but I am putty in the hands of beautiful writing.

While I was skimming through blogsites for distraction, I came across one that blew me away. The style is evocative and sincere--- a treat amid blogs that seem propelled by the pressure of production rather than inspiration. The blogger claims that he writes only about bits and pieces of this and that but, oh, the manner...

He elevates rambling to an art form. He explores conventional definitions of ideas and challenges me.

He asks, though under no duress, I am slave to the question. The answers come to me in trickles, incomplete and lacking clarity, but I feel that the journey is as exciting as the epiphany.

He asks, like he's trying to get into my head by way of casually typed and carelessly punctuated phrases, and manages to probe so much deeper--- a feat so discomfiting for its logical impossibility.

I respond warmly to touch, if it's invited or expected. Words, however, send shivers up my spine like a gentle caress. I am moved.