When the Vessel of Words Becomes Empty
Raindrops fall
plip, plop,
onto the silent rock.
Again and again.
Eventually, the rock hollows out,
and inside it,
transparent water begins to pool.
Words are the same.
Countless words that touch a person's heart
gently leave a mark,
and someday,
new words flow into that hollow.
If your own words haven't accumulated,
even if you try to write,
your hand stops.
Even if you think of something in your head,
if it doesn't come from within,
it is
not the true 'me'.
You can write.
But that is just something
that passes by like the wind.
Words without substance
sometimes
wear down the heart of the person who wrote them.
But—
Even so, there are nights when I cannot help but write.
It doesn't matter if it isn't conveyed.
It doesn't matter if it isn't in a form that communicates.
There are times
when I cannot stand unless I pour something out.
It is like a prayer,
and at times, it is also like a curse.
Clink, clink,
making a sound,
carrying around a vessel of words.
Someone, again today,
is trying to pour words into that empty vessel.
Even if they seem borrowed,
even if they seem empty,
in order to someday find
the moment when the true 'self'dwells within it.
Someday, I will find it.