Words

  I like words; I really do, and to say they occupy my mind would be an understatement. It might slow down the process, but I think in words, and they fill my mind in hours when I can't sleep.   Words race through my mind, in phrases, sentences, paragraphs, stories--usually.  But there are times when my mind is too fatigued to be structured into prose, and then thoughts transform into a panorama, visual in nature, just on the edge of verbal recollection.  Sometimes the images appear significant and meaningful, and I try to go to the edge and pull them back into words, that I can write down so as to remember the thought. 
    I attempted to capture into words one of my  particularly vivid epiphanies recently, but had no idea if my semi-dream message had been  even remotely conveyed into words.  It happened to be a mystical, magical insight into a world of  reeds, whose elements I could see and hear and feel. Wanting to see if I had reached across that other dimension, getting a little desperate to be understood,  I read what I had written to the resident realist in the household, as if the passage were anonymously written.  "Erudite," was his reaction.  "I'd stay away from swamps."  (My grade--an F)