Prostitute Turned Virgin

I love words. In the manner others love food or air or blood pushing life through their bodies, I love words.

When you speak, I am listening to your words.
      What ones did you pick? 
I am wondering about your words.
      Why did you pick that one? 
Sometimes, I am laughing at your words.
      Uh, don't think you know what that one means!
And, every once in a rapture of rhetoric, I am staggered by your words.
      Did you just say  ____________?! Ultra. Cool.

Words are the guide you give to the honeycomb of you: that peculiar maze that defines your nature, coming with no particular map so much as a red signifier of "You Are Here". In any given word exchange, we each proffer two significant articles: the You Are Here of that moment and the red lines of direction to the next layer of maze. Your words are tells - and I love to watch your cues.

Not everyone is gifted with words - and that's okay. My brother can say more with a profanity, for instance, than I would ever have enough blush to relate. But I get his message, nevertheless. This means, I think, that words aren't about elitism in its strictest sense; more like elitism in its best sense. For how many people can drop a great F bomb, but do it with little to no aplomb? If you have to look up aplomb, then you've got your answer. The gist? High words come from high folk - but not necessarily better folk.

So, if Month of Love is about considering all the ways, means, efforts, considerations, manners, and content of what our bulleted banner of "Love", then (for me) words have to make the list. Incidentally, I ain't alone in my love, however weird some of you might think it. I am fully aware that there are those who read here and share this precise pseudo-obsession. But, just in case you're wondering about all the other yahoos who've jumped this bandwagon, here are some highlights.

Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.  ~Anton Chekhov

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.  ~William Wordsworth

 A word is not the same with one writer as with another.  One tears it from his guts.  The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket.  ~Charles Peguy

No one means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean, for words are slippery and thought is viscous.  ~Henry Brooks Adams, The Education of Henry Adams, 1907

My language is the common prostitute that I turn into a virgin.  ~Karl Kraus

Words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean.  Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.  ~Theodore Dreiser, 1900

Proofread carefully to see if you any words out.  ~Author Unknown