Some might call me a thief.
I prefer to think of myself as a collector.
A collector of words.
All day and all night, I prowl, and when a word strikes my fancy, I don't pause, I don't blink, I don't hesitate. I pounce and I gather these effervescent butterflies of verbiage into my writer's notebook. I like knowing they're there, captured on the page, tattooed into my subconscious, bringing a little light into my word.
Feverishly, I scribble:
turbulence, flatulence and tumescence
multitude, platitude, and servitude.
Virulent, vitriolic, and vulgar.
Voluptuous, rotund, and mellifluous.
The more I take, the more I see. And carefully I sprinkle them throughout my day, dolling them out like decadent chocolates to those that cross my path.
At school pick up, I wish the teachers a splendid soiree.
At snack time, I tell my son to stop being an odious villain to his little sister.
When my daughter talks back, I ask her to stop being irreverent.
And as everyone shovels in their macaroni and cheese with contended sighs, I say that it must be as succulent as they expected.
And with so many radiant words swirling around us, our monochromatic winter world explodes with possibilities, sending me on the prowl once again... craving words.