I revel in words.
I like to lay around in them, rub them on my skin, like a scented oil that leaves the slightest aroma as I walk by.
I like to roll them on my tongue, taste them, chew them, swig them. I like the way they feel in my belly. Some heavy and filling, like comfort food in bed on a winter night. Some light, so light they fly back out as a giggle.
I like to think about words, where they came from, what they rhyme with, what they really mean. Why some of them leave an ache in my ribcage, while others transport me to a different time, a lifetime once lived or yet to come.
Some words feel like home. I want to crawl inside them and cocoon myself. I want to sit next to them like a fireplace, while I wear fuzzy socks and sip chamomile tea.
I like the way words arrest me, demanding to be given a voice, in a just-so arrangement. I am their prisoner and I am not free to go until they are satisfied. I sit patiently, tapping my feet, gazing out windows, on my knees in front of my merciless captors, until they are ready to flow out of my fingertips, given life, given purpose. Even still they rearrange themselves for hours to come, sometimes never placated.
You see I like words because they are their own force. Not my life. Not my creation. They use me, and God uses me, and I am just a vessel. An eager, seaworthy, well-travelled vessel, content to be spent for words.
Because I like them.