what it means


I love when people read my words, the poetry, the metaphors, the bits of true-life fiction wrapped up in fantasy and ask what it all means. I love holding someone elses thoughts, the labored tear stains littered with paper cuts and worried lips bit down in frustration as they try to correct a sentence until it says the right things. You often see arguments about what the author was really trying to say, how to explain the metaphors.

                            "This color blue says this about the authors life"
                                                    "There is a reason behind this word placement" 

That's the beauty of writing and reading. More than just the way the weight of the paper fits so perfectly between your fingers, how the depth of it makes a hollow sound when your brush your fingers against it. It's the way those words sit in your mouth when you speak them, the way they curl around your tongue like your speaking truth-fire. It's how the pen feels in your hand as you stroke them into the fiber of paper, or the way your fingertips brush the keyboard when there is no light left in the sky. There is universal truth, it's how we all work in our heads, how He works in all of us, but there is truth that comes to us quietly. It doesn't make a lot of noise, tiptoes on socked feet, whispers in our ear. Pink round cheeks filled with air making sounds like bells of truth.

This is why when people ask what I meant by this or that, or what some great was saying when he mentioned a color or shape, I want to ask you to close your eyes, watch the words fill the darkness of your eyelids. What truth is there for you, forget what I was trying to say, what he or she was trying to say. What does it say for you?

xoxo Johanna Grace