What really gives more meaning?

What really gives more meaning? That you were created for some specific fate (arbitrarily decided by some creator)? Or that you exist, for whatever reason, and must find and create your own meaning?

Words

I've always loved words.

I love their texture, their taste, the way they roll off my tongue. I love the way you can sense the kinship between related words, through their sound or their spelling or structure - that you can almost trace the history of a word a few generations down. Words can sometimes seem alive that way - with their own family history and descendants waiting in the aisles as the language grows and changes - branching out into an, as yet, undetermined future.

I like playing with them and breaking them and putting them together again. I like them swirling around and melting into each other. I like the sound of that choice word going splat against the wall. And I love picking up the squishy little pile of whatwasonceaword and moulding its mangled form into something beautiful.

I love subverting them - taking a word and making it do my bidding, giving it meanings no one would ever impute. You can make words dance, if your soul sings them right. And you can sing to other souls. You can calm your own disturbed thoughts by putting them to word. You can stroke lovingly at another's angst till it is soothed and goes to rest.

Then, there's the subtle melting of a word into a meaning it might just have in just the right context, a juxtaposition of meaning, form and sound to make it play the games you want it to, to make it tease at your senses - looking like one thing, sounding like another, meaning something else altogether or maybe just its motion, as it leaves your tongue, conjuring up visions of things unsaid.

Paver Stones

I like paver stones, especially those angular bendy ones. I love the way they fit together... just so... interlocking and perfect.

And you can always tell if the workmen really cared:
You can see if they lavished their love on these little bricks, if they cherished them and made them fit, if they sought out the best for each and the other...
Or, if they tossed them down in casual disregard and let them lie there - broken and humbled - forever akimbo as evidence...

Miscera

Some thoughts exist and come to me... they travel from far and wide... they appear from nowhere... and disappear soon after...

Some thoughts jump out of my unconscious into my thoughts... and leave when they please... or stay.. or not... the Miscellaneous answer to no one...

Some thoughts are messy and not well thought out... like the gooey goodness inside a soul... or body... a messy little collection of stuff entwined in itself... and maybe me... perhaps necessary... like a small intestine... or unimportant and obscure... like an appendix, that you'd dismiss in snobbish gesture...