Words

It's weird how my feeling on writing and words fluctuates.
But it's normal, too I think.

It's how I love writing.
How I can crawl into it and speak. Speak with the voice inside of me. How it expresses completely differently. And fittingly. How it can raise me up. A letter from someone else, maybe. Encouragement. Fellowship. Understanding.
How it gives me goose bumps. How it feels, and sounds, but is still,
silent.
But you can feel the voice anyways, and it's inexplicable.
How a book gets me so giddy, warms me, or relaxes me.
And I'm alone.
But I'm with the words too.

And it's how I hate it. How I can't - just thoroughly can't - express myself.
It's hard to write.
How low it is capable of bringing me. The words that devastate me. Stab me. Even when they're said, because, somehow, it's written inside of me.
How it's like translating,
into something different and it's not how it happened and it's not how it felt and it's 
inadequate.
Frustration and tears and annoyance.

But I think, all those negatives are worth the sweetness.