I want these words to reach into something real. Something raw, and ugly. Messy and spilling over with bright blood, like being born, or dying. I'm sick of the intellectual. I am vomiting up thick chunks of the abstract, searing acid of the theoretical erupting from my stomach until there is only the empty.
I hate speaking from the other side of this computer screen, what I want is to grab your shoulders and shake you, what I want is to plunge my hands in brown sludge, up to my elbows, breathing in that stench. I hate words. I hate that they are weightless. Mere symbols, deferring meaning. Look, abstraction! See how it is impossible to avoid.
People are dying out there. Life is happening, in all its harsh dissonance, bullets exploding in your ears, or in the quiet moments, when the silence perches over you even louder, glaring. It means something. Maybe these words don't, but the bleeding that they are trying to describe does. I hate that I can only tell you this. I hate that I can speak of sobbing, but not wrap my arms around you.
SCREAMING. The world is on fire. I see the flames in your eyes. I see them whittle you to dust. There is no comfort I can give for this.
I hate that the truth sounds brittle when I speak it. I hate when I say God, and you have no idea what I'm saying. I hate when I say love, and you scoff and turn away. I do not blame you. How can I blame you? I am talking to myself. There is no solution for this.
My words mean nothing. They are beautiful and empty. They are shards of light, refracting. They shred my throat and stain the floor.
But You, oh God. You are the One who can save us.