We were sunday-children this weekend. Flimsy and unburdened.
Just for a few moments. We invented games, remembered old ones and talked about the sound of a common sunday-afternoon. When you remain in silence, you can hear the glimmering cracks of heat meeting the light noise of the wind playing in the leaves while the grass molds slowly into hay. You can hear all kinds of humming and buzzing of natures little creatures and sometimes a light splitting of wood somewhere.
We sought a lot of words in and for this sounds. Some of them complicated, some of them simple, every single one of them wonderful and unique.
Sometimes we didn't find the right words, so we made some up and isn't that the beauty of language, really?
You can put some weird shaped tiny figures together and combine them to something meaningful.
Maybe not for everyone and the world, but meaningful to yourself.
You are then the only person, that can make sense out of this "rubbish", absurdity and chaos of letters on a sheet of paper or in your mind and that is in a way like having a secret with the language itself.
You can choose to share this secret, to keep it or to write down words that everybody understands. Whichever you choose it all leads up to you telling a story.
Beautiful things belong to beautiful souls.
graphics by andy gilmore; photography by me
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