Addie Woltil

The millions of words once thought up in someone’s head, each one with it’s own impact; what I hope my writing can be for someone

“For someone who loved words as much as I did, it was amazing how often they failed me” (Rio 211).

This quote fully encapsulates my life. There are endless words strewn across my mind at any given moment, yet the moment I try to search through the dust-ridden shelves they are piled on, I can never find the perfect fit. 

Throughout the inner depths of my mind are half-finished poems, never quite poetic enough, never entirely with the words I need to express what I feel.                      

Quite simply, I think the words don’t exist. 

I think that no matter how long I search, there will always be a gap in my knowledge; in my compendium of the words I hear in passing, the words I’m surely pronouncing wrong because they’ve only ever been read. Each word holds a unique beauty and complexity that I could describe infinitely better if only I had the perfect words.

If I could invent my own words, there would be one that would perfectly describe the feeling you get on a cozy autumn day, staring out the window at the colorful, falling leaves etched into the sky. There would be a word for the feeling I have when I make my coffee just right and know I won’t be able to replicate it the next day. There would be a perfect word for the pure, unadulterated love of life.

I’m glad I can’t invent words for these things.

I think if I had the perfect word to describe everything, it would lose its perfection. I believe it’s better when some things in life are left unexplained: a scribbled thought trailing off at the bottom of a paper, an unfinished poem lying in the depths of my brain.

Words let me down, but they are all I have. I love them in their entirety and in the way they flow through my fingers and onto a page to effortlessly capture my ephemeral thoughts and wonderings of a moment in time, now forever embellished on something concrete.

They give me self-expression and life; they strip down my tornado of thoughts to the bare workings of my mind and remind me what I love about my life. They resuscitate me and put the air in my lungs and blood through my heart, and I hope they need me as much as I need them.

I hope every scribble and half thought I jot down on a piece of paper makes a mark on the world. I hope that every story I write makes someone’s day just a little bit better. I hope my words can someday send a butterfly effect out into the world that is greater than myself.

Words fail me, but I love them. My love for them is untarnished and sacred because I need the words I think and speak and write to live. Filling every cluttered corner and shadow of my mind are the stories I swore I would finish, texts I wish I had the courage to send, words I long for the bravery to put out into the world, and thoughts that are there just for me. 

I love my imperfect words and my lack of them simply because they are mine.