words

Letters, by themselves, are symbols. They may stand for a sound, a universally-accepted signal, they may stand for anything. But when these letters become strewn together into fine-woven tapestries, words are formed. Words… words hurt. They sear the soul and would sometimes condemn. They sound like a thousand different lashings, of every pain and suffering one can imagine.

My mother likes words. She shifts from sweet nothings to not-so-sweet harangues in a matter of seconds, particularly in instances when she knows of my insane actuations. It affects my whole being when she does that, somehow, the nerves and the emotional appendages attached to my brain act up, ready to blow a fuse. I could scream quietly. For minds are known for thinking and thoughts… most thoughts are known to generate practicable and reasonable ideas for application that it would be downright ridiculous, even sinful to scream. My brain cells knew better than set off my mom, my prototype, already an atomic explosion.

My father, on the other hand, does not speak a lot. He avoids arguments and always desires to settle for a compromise. My dad usually gets his way oftentimes, the way my mother would define what “his way” was. But his eyes tell you much more than utterances could ever express. I always feel guilty; I feel uncompelled to return a petty type of anger towards my dad, one that I always use towards my mother during those moments. One look and I knew how I had to act. Relaying the message silently, no loud screams, no arguments, no harsh sounds, I would still get it. I would understand.

Words are truly powerful, especially if they are unspoken. Words hurt more when they are silent.