Keyboards are my paintbrush. Words are my acrylic and my watercolor. When painters produce cynical, controversial works of art they are praised for their complexity and vision. When I write the balanced truth, I am labeled a menace and a harlot. I am exhausted and drilled down. I need a healthy space in which to produce and express my art, but words are a commodity to be tossed in and out. Words hurt people. Words invoke jealous rages, bestial cries of betrayal, and finally tortured silences.
A word can put you on a plane. A word can scare you. A word can brand your self-worth and make you question your very existence.
A word is a sentence.
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