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║ fifty-third stanza ║ voice
May. 26th, 2011 08:05 pm[One romantic young poet is hard at work, as can be evidenced by the sound of his writing scratching away on paper. He quietly speaks to himself as he works.]
A feeling as if-- in flight? Soaring, free? Of bursting, of-- of... joy beyond measure. But no, no word is adequate. No phrase not overused, not worn out and thinned until its meaning has been lost.
[There's more scratching now, the inelegant editing process of a writer whose process demands the physical obliteration of any turns of phrase he finds inadequate. Now he addresses the Network.]
Foolish, isn't it? That we so frequently attempt to quantify, explain, or represent the feeling of love... No phrase has yet proven adequate, no painting impassioned enough, no song quite potent enough, to capture the feeling. A pure, raw feeling which grips you at your core, against which you are powerless. That which can move us to words we did not know we could speak, actions we did not know we were capable of, depths of emotion we did not know we could experience...
There are no words for love; there is only the experience, and it cannot be replicated nor simulated. Love is...
It is love, and though it has been tossed about, used and misused, applied without discretion to that which pales in comparison to its truest form, weakened and watered down through such linguistic carelessness, there is no other word. Nor will there ever be.
[With a sigh, he turns off the device.]
A feeling as if-- in flight? Soaring, free? Of bursting, of-- of... joy beyond measure. But no, no word is adequate. No phrase not overused, not worn out and thinned until its meaning has been lost.
[There's more scratching now, the inelegant editing process of a writer whose process demands the physical obliteration of any turns of phrase he finds inadequate. Now he addresses the Network.]
Foolish, isn't it? That we so frequently attempt to quantify, explain, or represent the feeling of love... No phrase has yet proven adequate, no painting impassioned enough, no song quite potent enough, to capture the feeling. A pure, raw feeling which grips you at your core, against which you are powerless. That which can move us to words we did not know we could speak, actions we did not know we were capable of, depths of emotion we did not know we could experience...
There are no words for love; there is only the experience, and it cannot be replicated nor simulated. Love is...
It is love, and though it has been tossed about, used and misused, applied without discretion to that which pales in comparison to its truest form, weakened and watered down through such linguistic carelessness, there is no other word. Nor will there ever be.
[With a sigh, he turns off the device.]
