a thousand pictures

There is the familiar expression "a picture is worth a thousand words." It holds true because you can go to great lengths describing an image in minute detail. There are no real limits on how you describe something. Of course, some pictures lend themselves more readily to a thousand words, and that is the sentiment of the phrase.

Is the inverse true, I wonder? Can a word be worth a thousand pictures? I think a word can, and as with pictures, some words lend themselves more readily to the sentiment. I have a word that conjures up a thousand pictures in the blink of an eye. There are no limits, no rules. It is a writer's best friend and worst nightmare. It is an excuse for the irrational, an explanation for things that can not be explained.

It is a simple word at the core, just four letters, and it has been defined in the dictionary. But it's not defined by one or two; it is defined by up to and over twenty definitions. A verb, a noun; used in idioms and poems and followed with a plethora of synonyms.

This is not special by itself. Any word can achieve this, but can it achieve the same ability to conjure images and feelings. Do we fantasize about other words, nay, other ideas in the same way?

That is what it comes to be. An idea: a word that is an idea; a concept that over a thousand words cannot describe or explain. And oh how we have tried. From Shakespeare to the teenager in English class, we have written about it. It is this; it is that; it is all of this and all of that.

There seems to be more questions and more vagueness than answers and specifics. Perhaps it is impossible to comprehend such a feeling, such an idea. Happiness is a smile. Sadness is a tear. It can be both.

You lose your mind thinking about it but you don’t go insane. You risk everything for it but feel you have won more. It is when you care for yourself less than you care for someone else; when it is mutual.

It could be unconditional, and it can come and it can go. Just like the tides and the weather, only it is not controlled or predicted. Perhaps there are patterns, common themes that overlap. Perhaps if everyone described it, there would be enough information for facts. But then, the fantasy wouldn’t be so fantastic.

There’s no need at all to think about it then.

There don’t have to be reasons; what reason is there for it? Any or every, it matters little. The specifics sojourn our minds and sometimes we understand. Other times we are disheartened, but hardly for long.

To me, and perhaps not just me, it is a seed. Nurtured in its soil and cared for by another hand, it grows out of the darkness, as if by miracle. Seasons come and go, and it continues to grow, finding its way to the warmth of an object so far out reach, yet touchable.

This small seed, now this sprout, comes to life and finds its way. The same hand urges it on with the very idea it represents. Time passes, changes come, and still it grows. One day, it blossoms for the first time, and it is glorious. But it doesn’t end there; this is not the zenith or the peak, this is just the beginning. Further seasons may come and go, and this little miracle grows and blossoms in a never-ending cycle, as long as the hand remains and the idea is true.

Excuse the analogy and the metaphor if you will, but don’t excuse the meaning.

This is my idea, not something borrowed.

But then, I share it because it’s not something to lock in a box and keep safe from prying eyes. It’s something to spread across countless minds, not to cheapen or dull, but to better understand the mystery and fantasy of such a concept; a word - one single word in all its forms.

Every meaning and expression from every different view: Bitter-sweet to sweet-sorrowful, extreme joy to extreme sadness. Broken metaphorical hearts and irrational thoughts. Such a vast concept we have created, endured and nurtured.
”For love,” we cry. For love!

When writing this, perhaps a disguised letter to the future, I had to explore a looping path. It heads straight for a while and then curves into a circle. I found myself back at the beginning –that’s the reality. It is the same looping path you experience in multiple ways. Some grow bored of the cycle; some believe it is always a fresh path. But really, it’s the same path you explore with eager senses - each time something new; a flowerbed to the left that wasn’t there; a lake clearer than a polished mirror.

You spend your life wandering this path. You may end up lost somewhere, not because you didn’t know where you were going, just because you never understood the directions to get there.

You walk and you dream, you smile and you sadden. Pining and dreaming away this time on the worn path. In a million years when we have all evolved to control the irrational, this path will be long-deserted. It is not a curse to wander it, but the fear of not understanding and having no control drives us to desperate measures. Some would abandon the path to pursue a life of materialistic desires; still, perhaps, the same word in another view.

Whatever the reasons, whatever the way, this one word is followed like some great leader. As the seed grows, so the fascination does – desires to nurture it until the warmth of the sun seems close enough.

Painting a thousand pictures with this one word: Love.

Yours,
Greg

From you one look, just one look
And everything is shattered.
From you one word,
And towers burn
They fall, fall, fall