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Words do not touch the persons, places or things - or whatever else it is – that we would, if we could, speak about; they are mere fillings of sound and letter that surround the silent void that alone is our hearts desire, that for which we have no words We talk and write, filling the spaces surrounding this necessarily silent void with the hope that some other will, from the shape of the filling, be able to shape this hole, to understand what it is that we are not talking of, this echo-less silent void that alone is the desire of our heart, that alone has any importance for us. We know these silent voids … For have we not struggled and failed, again and again, to tell some other of the importance buried within our heart, our soul, only to find our words constantly missing the mark we aimed for – leaving us frustrated by our dumbness and the deafness of the other? Do we not play both roles, that of the dumb and that of the deaf -- sometimes simultaneously? And, have we not fiercely thrown words at each other only to realize that we were talking of the same thing, but couldn't say what that thing was?
© B. W. Reed