Value of Words

To assemble, entangle the words would already prove difficult even without hyperbole, ignorance and basic understanding, yet all the power still lies with whoever calls on the force of communication. Putting together a functioning sentence is simple enough, but is just scratching the surface. While it is essential and necessary to express oneself and be understood for basic existence, it isn't the full capacity of expression or power that the jumble of letters can provide.

Pompous or not, my propensity to write has always made words important to me. As a shy child of divorce who found emotions and mental well being locked away inside, there was always a need, a desire to get out in some way. It was locked away, and that's a dangerous proposition to go numb to what you close yourself off to, but it was cutting out part of me. The human condition means we feel, we need outlets and, honestly, probably need something to just be ours. While so much of youth is spent chasing the social hierarchy, trying to climb the popularity ladder, having something just your own provides you a cocoon.

While it can bring about anxiety and neuroses about protecting it, the possibilities remain endless and fantastic. It's yours, no judgment and thus becomes the piece of just you, truly you. Out of necessity, words became mine just to survive emotionally and mentally, but then I liked it. Now my thing became a symbiotic cycle of pouring myself in, but only me. Never was it meant to be shared, just something to dull the incoming blade of anger or sadness. That task is arduous and becomes impossible when you meet someone special.

Now my words could serve a self-serving purpose. While, initially, it was the ultimate act of trust to share one of my most guarded secrets, lust and hormones have a powerful effect on the brain. Hormonal, chemical courage, sometimes mixed with liquid courage was the shove needed to mercenary my words for perverted purposes. Thus began an abusive relationship in which I felt a written expression dangling somewhere in my mind waiting to be reeled in when I could use it. That's not the true expression or inspiration, it's forced art and even that is generous. In fact, if art is to be defined as the voice bursting forth from the heart or soul, this was something else using those vessels. It took truly finding rock bottom to be able to hear what was in me, to find my voice again in a pure sense.

It took heartbreak, it took torment of the soul to re-find what I had lost, the words. Not just any words, the expression AND the only way I could constructively do so in an age of immaturity and emotional warfare. It was warfare for myself as I resisted and hardly understood what I was feeling or what I needed to do to embrace it, but also the stupidity of angsty, hormonal dating. Really, dating itself is such a nightmare, but at that age you fight this freeze out battle over attention and control because, for some reason, it's bad to be forthright with your feelings, so why ever be? Pushing feelings down in love, unable to understand, or control, my emotions, turmoil in life with my family and friends lead to almost self-destruction.

On the edge of the end, the surrounding and crippling darkness, the only light was words. Trapped in my own thoughts, paralyzed at seeing my own mortality possibly end in my own hands, the only link to my brain was the one connected to the pen in my hand. The only way to break through the dense fog of self-doubt and self-loathing was to write. Being able to put down words on paper allowed me to empty my head. Somehow that connection worked like never before and I was able to vanquish the dark thoughts word by word. The fallout with a parent, massive heartbreak, and being banished from my friend group pushed me near the end, but words brought me back. Words saved my life.

I'd like to say from that point forward there was no more under appreciation of what words meant to me, but that can't be true with the under utilization of them. Still they were tied so heavily to love, but with so many shortcomings it made sense to have the extra step to try and work through feelings. It was quite some time of self-discovery, self-exploration, but mostly self-confidence, before I truly found my voice. Despite choosing a profession that relies on me speaking, the eloquence of written word is no match for spoken word. Perhaps being just one-on-one with the paper melts any fear or trepidation to truly just let yourself on the paper. Maybe it being more just for you allows you to achieve what you truly need to for yourself, it's fulfilling creation and expression. In this finding of my voice I still find the occasional, surprising moment where I'm weighing and measuring the value of words. Here I am again, seeing just how much they're appreciated.

I found myself measuring the worth of my words once again and, ironically, ended up in a place where words meant so much, the Anne Frank House. Here is the most famous diary in the world, an encapsulation of a terrible time in history that is infamous for its cruelty and destruction. Here was a little girl trying to find her way, perhaps trying to make sense of an abominable and disgusting time while simply writing for herself. Perhaps it was a sense of normalcy, perhaps it just calmed her, but these written words weren't meant to be any work of art, yet are some of the most famous words worldwide. Now, I have no delusions of my thoughts, blogs, any of that becoming some kind of worldwide phenomena, but it isn't lost how something so informal, yet personal, touched the world. These words are important, in large part, because of their scarcity. That may be why they're so taken for granted.

I found myself measuring my words yet again because of the juxtaposition of my professional and personal social interactions. At work, in radio, spoken word is my work place, it is how I make a living. On the air, meeting people, in the workplace, I'm required to speak often and regularly. This has led to a split, and personal dilemma, in regards to the value I place on my words, but that is to come. The split is someone who generally operates in the quiet when given the choice. In fact, my profession has fueled a more introspective normal state as I see it. So much is shared, so many personal stories, so busy that the peace of calm and quiet is easily accepted. This is where clarity is needed and conflict arises.

Perhaps it is nature, but it is human for some, to need to push the threshold, to add a little bit more to reach the same levels. Language does not escape this condition as hyperbole becomes more and more common. To express the same feelings, frustrations, to land something, we go further and further to get to the exact point, thus leading to two paths for me. Much like my split 'programs' in terms of my outward personality, I approach hyperbole on both sides. This, of course, starts with being opposed to it. As someone who finds such value in words, why would I not? When words have been my voice, have saved my life, it would seem undeniable that at some point you'd find yourself in defense of the language, of the unnecessary over taxed use that does nothing but cheapen it. All you can do is value your own, however.

It may be snobbish, it may be pompous thinking of one's self as a 'keeper of words' or as someone whose words carry more value, but that seems too hastily handed down. Too often that judgment is made only on surface level, condemning someone for putting more into something we may take for granted. Perhaps it is a little pompous and egotistical, but the actions determine whether it's an over the top claim, not the value one puts in something of personal importance. This is where a more introverted personality and extreme value placed into words intertwine to create, at least perceptibly, a stubbornly quiet, prickly demeanored individual.

Now, I would defend myself and say I don't judge others for their use of language, and for this I mean hyperbole and not cursing, because we'll get to that. I use it to measure my own use of hyperbole and exaggeration. Certain words stand out to me now, iconic, being one of them that has moved into common vernacular that I refuse to use. I would think it's obvious why I wouldn't want to make it a common word, but another example was the personal challenge I set for myself in college. Finding myself cheapening my own use of language I vowed to cut words like 'love, hate, holy, evil' out unless absolutely necessary. They are some of the most powerful words in the English language and I felt I could do better. I wouldn't say the experiment was short lived, but you fall back into regular patterns, however, I try to keep that thought process running.

Words can be so powerful and the color and beauty in them comes from their variety. Annoyed, perturbed, frustrated, irked, they allow for different sounds, rhythms, you can paint with them. It is said writers often pain to find the right word in something they're working on, the highest form of wordsmithing, but we al could stand to have some of that. Hyperbole mushes together the high and low ends, the mountains and valleys, into a boring flat line. It takes all the color you can paint with and mixes it to just a dull brown, muting just how vibrantly we can express ourselves. Why would you cheapen something so immeasurable, so reflective of one's self and how she can be represented? As someone who fights uphill battles because of how casually my outwardness reflects, part of that is language, and I promise my internal struggle will be shared. I don't worry about it because I'll handle myself eloquently and intelligently in any conversation. It is the desire not to cheapen words that I've come to hate small talk, though some of that may be a cover.

Part of my prickly demeanor comes from my disdain for small talk. First, let me say I know it's necessary and see this as more of a character flaw than some overabundant value of words, but I still don't enjoy it. The conclusion I've come to in regards to small talk is I see it as meaningless exchanges of banter that accomplishes nothing. This is, at least partially, probably a result of generally being so open with my job that I feel like just miniscule chit chat is boring and doesn't get anywhere. Again, I understand there's a place for it, mostly professionally, but personally I find no use for it. Even meeting someone new you can dive into something much more substantial. This of course comes to a rather oxymoronic conclusion from someone who would define them as a rather reserved guy, but I have no problem having a conversation on the right topics. In all reality I probably subject myself to more chit chat because of the perceived prickly demeanor and people unsure how to approach or engage me. However, if there's nothing better to say or an actual discussion to be had then let's just leave it at that. There's no reason to have to fill the air just because it's quiet. Silence isn't a bad thing.

My views on silence are actually where the scope of my prickly demeanor can come into its true view. It doesn't bother me, being quiet doesn't make me uncomfortable. This is one of the silver linings of hitting rock bottom because a part of the initial issues for me were having to be left with nothing but my thoughts, but I had to conquer that or it would have destroyed me. The end result was being perfectly comfortable sitting in silence and not feeling on edge as seconds passed and feeling the need to break the silence. That's not to say there can't be uncomfortable periods of silence because even in my comfort you can still reflect the uneasy nature that just bounces back and forth from person to person. It is my stubbornness that truly reveals itself here because I hold my ground more often than needed because the quiet doesn't bother me.

Maybe a little pompous but I think my comfort in silence has enhanced my value in my words, because if it is quiet on the outside my brain is probably running a mile a minute inside. This isn't the end result of uncomfort in the silence but instead a result of really a constant simulation of hypotheticals and self-evaluation. Everyone does this in some capacity and everyone is familiar with trying to evaluate or replay situations to figure out what happened or what will come next, and I for sure do that, but if my brain is left unoccupied then it will find something to keep it busy. It was one of these exact situations that led to me wanting to write this piece. The ability to work through things and self-evaluate was one of the greatest things going to therapy gave me. Initially I needed a professional to help me sort through all the chaos in my mind, but once I sorted through it and returned to a state of normal sanity the process remained. The stoic nature isn't someone aloof or elsewhere mentally, it's someone who is taking in the information and putting together the answers needed if called on or I feel the need to contribute.

I would like to make it clear I don't think my words carry more value than others, but instead I just focus on not being repetitive or wasting time so if it has been addressed then I won't add much. This of course feeds back into being aloof, quiet and prickly, but I've made peace with that because ultimately it comes down to be comfortable in your own skin. Is it a perfect situation? No, but as I said I do find this to be a bit of a character flaw of mine. This is how I end up as someone in certain situations has no problem telling any part of my life story, even the worst parts, or someone who can sit in a room and have very little to add to a conversation. I can give speeches and talk in front of people or be content to go along for the ride with little contribution. Comfort in silence also truly comes from the power of the word 'I don't know.' Acknowledge, own it and address it instead of being someone who speaks on what they don't know and wastes time.

Now, as much as I can't stand hyperbole, it would be a flat out lie to not say I don't engage in it. I enjoy dark humor, inappropriate jokes and cursing like a sailor. To start with the 'foul language' because it of course provides a course projection, let's be honest, most people use it and I love the saying that 'those who curse are more intelligent.' Of course there's no absolutes in life, but I've made peace with who I am. Cursing in its own right is hyperbolic in nature, but is defined as 'colorful language' because it also can add more feeling or emphasis to what you're saying. That's not to say I don't find it inappropriate at times, possibly professionally and generally with new people, but if you hear it then it means I'm just being me and feel comfortable. And yes, I use it at work and generally provide chuckles because I'm willing to say things I think others won't. Actually, we did a straw poll and people that spend more time around me curse way more, one of my proudest moments.

The dark humor and inappropriate jokes are nothing but hyperbolic, but yet again I feel it's something a lot of people engage in and just don't say outside of closed doors. Knock, knock because I will barge in with mine and get the head shakes that come with a grin. This is the true nature of my hyperbole because so often I believe I come off as someone who doesn't take things seriously because I say such ridiculous things. Trying to evaluate that still leaves me at a bit of a loss, and how can it not, because I've spent this time arguing about the value I place in words while being perfectly comfortable saying outrageous things to get laughs. Where it falls for me is someone who uses hyperbole in obvious hyperbolic situations while avoiding it in real situations. I think it provides more depth to my words as someone who isn't necessarily snooty all the time about words to really provide a different edge instead of just the prickly demeanor. It's a tricky shift to navigate and probably confuses others, but it does leave me with endless possibilities of what I could say or write.

The final question is, what value do I place into words? I'd say immense and someone who uses different colors of language depending on how it strikes me to use them. I can make dark jokes, answer eloquently or have nothing to add whatsoever. The bottom line is words hold the personal value that you instill in them, because it ultimately falls on you to make them mean something more than just the garbled mess that comes out of your mouth. While I may be completely devoid of seriousness at times, I hope when I'm not in that place to have my words hold a high standard and remain unperverted by hyperbole or meaninglessness.