Mortar, Between Bricks & Stones

Language is wine upon the lips. 
Virginia Woolf

Yea, Virginia, you possess the gift of language upon paper, yet did you ever receive the gift of being heard as language stumbled out of your tight mouth? The mouth that inhaled the very oxygen that kept your heart beating, your mind wandering, your ache unbearable? 

I do, indeed, supremely indeed, long and grope blindly to have steady days and nights of language unabashedly and reverently trickle down from my inner-workings, to then swirl upon my tongue, and finally, gracefully flung onto the world’s ear–not to cloak the hearing from seeing me, but to whet and wet with exclamation to the world my beautifully  young and aged experiences.

My lips need to speak a language that has been first crushed. Not a violent act of denial of language, but a splitting open of my interior to permit fermentation (considering wine-making)–where the bacteria, the harm and wounds, help transform my language into something more whole and close. Thus, stabilizing my story in the midst of honesty and furthering a matured, personally palatable, striking ‘me’. 

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