Words are such disloyal friends. They have this stupid tendency to desert you just when you need them. They just run and hide somewhere in the folds of chaotic waves inside you, no matter how much you cry for them. They know they're there, they know what they mean and they know they're needed to stop things going astray, but they wouldn't arrive. Worse, they'd often send some foreign cousins of theirs to cover up- other words that have no clue what's going on and have no business showing up. And you're left cleaning behind the mess they make. Such disloyal friends.
And then, there are other times. When a truth, a forbidden feeling, an honest confession just appears from somewhere inside you. Words suitably accompany and just pour out of you, like they suddenly hate you and cannot stay inside any longer. And so you say stuff, out loud, stuff that leaves you defenceless and exposed. But the listener doesn't care. He's somewhere else, engrossed in some other words. He listens, he reads - probably - and he ignores. And you're left alone, vulnerable, staring at the vomit of stupid unrestrained words spread on the floor. Wondering whether you're not worth it or your feelings are meaningless. Or whether, words are being disloyal friends to your listener, abandoning him, leaving him speechless and unresponsive, when he really just wants to tell you how much your words mean to him.
Such disloyal friends.
