de rien

there are times when I get very good with words . . then I get really bad. It is because words leave me at times, they hide away like objects, trinkets, toys of my flourishing everyday madness that are misplaced in absent-minded moments. I try to break the spell with the turn of a phrase yet the syllables escape me, buried under heaps of cards, keys, small packs of cigarette paper, the ribbons that I cut off from a dress (you know, these really long, annoying ones that are sewn in the place of the armpits to help you hang the garment but only serve to bug you immensely and peek out from unexpected angles each time you try to wear the damn thing) anyways, what was I saying, yes, the syllables that keep slipping away beneath all that sticky humming of our mundane humanity, yes, you see, the weird thing about those lost syllables is, that when they get lost, they get replaced by these gargantuan waves of words that come and sweep my palate clean from the taste of my lost jewels, or they just create so much noise so as to drown the feeling of loss or of being at it. That’s also about the same time when my adopted language tends to irritate me enormously – I want to shove it away, throw it under the bus, as they say, become an εγγαστρίμυθος or totally break it down by way of native tongue eruptions, and even more than that, of grunts, growls, sighs, roars and yawns – these are the corrupted shapes of what intended to be syllables, or, maybe the very deep, core – as they say- source of them, which one it is I cannot tell with certainty. . . After the growls I just stop, stunned by my own eloquence.