Generation after generation, the words we inherit don’t much change, generally continuing to carry the same weight as their debut. I’ve not much to say that hasn’t been shared or thought plenty already. No grand insight or proper poetic discourse. No clear plan or innovation. None of the words I write are new. The sentences they make, similar to those written by many others, met and unmet, read and unread. This doesn’t take away the possibilities of their effect, their possibility for meaning, their possibility for beauty or risk of harm.
The material possessions we inherit tend to gain weight in meaning from the stories infused in them. Deflating when those stories become stale. This hat is filled with stories for me, still heavy in meaning. Perhaps I will modify this again when I know how to tell them satisfactorily.
m.m., 10 December 2016