There are days I can't spell words I've known all my life. Thankful for the dictionary at my fingertips. Sometimes our brains are simply occupied with other functions. Aphasia is terrifying to a writer, no doubt, but hopefully the process will be slower than molassass in January and you'll be writing for many years to come. Love, V.
This piece is atmospheric and sits a little darkly for me. I'm loving the journey here. Love, Virg
It is exploring the darkness of losing my words. It’s slowly happening. I couldn’t spell Onomatopoeia yesterday.
Onomatopoeia is not onomatopoeic.
Nor can you spell it by how it sounds.
There are days I can't spell words I've known all my life. Thankful for the dictionary at my fingertips. Sometimes our brains are simply occupied with other functions. Aphasia is terrifying to a writer, no doubt, but hopefully the process will be slower than molassass in January and you'll be writing for many years to come. Love, V.
This verse is perfection
"language has left me,
maybe I am a poor host
as you can diagnose.
save me from phonetic addiction,
let my consciousness,
slip into your womb."
Its that Something deeper beyond words connection!! Such a gorgeous section!! Its one of those parts that just stay with you!!
Thank you. It’s my favourite stanza in this poem. It’s near literal nonsense, yet figuratively dense. 🙏
This poem feels like walking into someone’s raw, unguarded inner world.
There’s a heaviness in the way rain, summer, and death blur together, like a mind trying to stay afloat.
The loss of language feels painfully real, as if the speaker is slipping away from their own voice.
I felt the desperation in wanting to escape words entirely, to rest somewhere deeper and quieter.
The melancholia imagery is haunting it feels like grief wearing a body that’s not ready.
The Moses reference carries such a quiet ache, a longing for care that never arrived.
The loneliness in “yellow cat fogs” is strange but strangely believable.
When the rain “cuddles the darkness,” you can feel how empty comfort can be.
The confession of being orphaned and unspoken lands with a kind of quiet devastation.
And that final refusal to share the pain feels heartbreakingly human a boundary made of survival.
Interesting stream of consciousness.
Thank you. It was a fascinating piece to write. Might not be as fascinating to read. 🤣🤣
I wanted to capture a sense of discombobulation with language. The structural integrity of the words intact yet subtly misplaced.
Yet also leave a sense of a coherent message.