on boundaries...order and safety..

Listening to different journeys of the speech, which words are taking space and which sit still, in silence, providing a navigation, potential danger, points to move away from, i am thinking how all this reflects the layers of who we are, or were, or wish to be... Sitting here i wonder if the next word that i will choose has already chosen me. Which of all the words that exist are those that are specific for me? Hm...How do they outline my borders..would i be in another shape if i would be chosen by other words or would choose differently? Are words dead and objectified..or can they be the same as seeing someone crying, bleeding, breathing...are they the juice of one's body as well? Can words be hands and hands be words? Probably if we would not lack anything, language would never develop...no desires, no words. Like a mental skin, my words shape a relief in the nearness of who i am, or think i am, or desire to be... But inside...on the inner layer, the pulse of survival is editing to protect the most fragile...editing to keep order, to reveal only fragments, perhaps only the surface of the volume mostly unknown... The words i have chosen, have chosen me..and me and them know it was the safest choice, the one respecting order, even if in a poetic way...but still order, boundaries of my breath...breath to dare until here.