What is to be Said?

What is to be said? I know that there is much to say. Let it be known that when it comes to articulation, I find a euphoric pleasure in searching out the best way to say. Words are beautiful things. Via words, I can express thought to you, the reader. I can direct your very thoughts by the use of phrases that have been structured within a context that will give specific meaning on a personal level to you as an individual. I, via the written/spoken word, can effect you. I can build you up and then tear you right back down. I can reveal truth, or weave deception. I can convey love, or communicate hate. I can virtually accomplish any tangible goal with this over-laid function we call language, and by this point in my exposition you are asking yourself, "What is his goal in writing this?"

You see, dear reader, I have hit a wall. In the most humble of senses, I would like to fancy myself quite adept in this art of language. However, as of late I have found the articulation of my thought to be quite laborious. Due to circumstances with which I am quite unfamiliar, I have, for the first time, found myself quite "tongue-tied', if you will forgive the colloquialism. Never before have I been "at a loss for words"; at the very least, not like this. I have analyzed my mind and conducted the most thorough of investigations of the deepest recesses of my heart and intellect, and my conclusions, the which my hypothesis vaguely infers, alarm me in the most subtle of senses.

I fear that I may be afraid. Afraid of what and why, I am not yet entirely sure. Be it known that, based upon the knowledge and understanding of the convictions to which I hold so desperately dear, I should have no cause for this fear. In a word, it is irrational; and yet the interference whom I find tightly wrapping himself about the words that I so desperately wish to utter looms above me - daring me to try my hand at innocent and genuine expression, and when I dare except the challenge, he strangles the words, one-by-one.

The saddest truth remains that I am utterly helpless to repair this inhibited state. I have often wondered that I just might terminate the fear by removing my person from the circumstance all together; surrender, as it were, to the fear and concede defeat. Circumstance has indeed crossed me all together, and this truth, coupled with my inability to find the words, compels me to recede to the recesses of my doubt and not run the risk of a wound due to impulsive action.

I know this course of action to be unacceptable on all fronts. There is no competing with the hope that I have in one day being able to articulate, even if it is only the possibility of articulating the incredibly fantastic thought that saturates my mind at this present moment. I cannot hope for anything more than that expression. At this time, this exposition must be enough, and I await, with patient anticipation, the day that I am no longer compelled to succumb to silence - the day when I will have truly "found the words."