I feel surrounded by words; I swim in a sea of them. They leap out at me from pages of books, from the lips of people, from my memories. I see them wherever I go and I both hate and love them. They say so little, and never do what I wish they would. I wish I could bend them to my will. I would use them to change people's minds, but they are stubborn and never do what I ask. They are beautiful too, when they fall just the right way. They tease me by flowing from my fingertips some days. And then, just like that, they're gone. There are so many things I wish I could say, if only I could find the words for them.

That's another reason why I love dogs. Communicating with them is so simple. Sit. Eat. Fetch. One-word sentences, terse and to the point. When did language become such a barrier? How did it become so complicated to use? Now I weigh each word I utter. I preface the harsh ones with gentle ones, hide the truth in subtleties, hide my hurt behind funning, and talk in half-meanings, half-sentences, half-ideas. I use them and I hate them and I love them. I long for silence, but they dance in my head anyway, teasing me, taunting me. They are how I think. To not think in words would be to not think at all. I don't remember sights or images or colours, only words. I swim in them and I sink in them.