...Anyways.

I find it hard to think today. My feet are too large, and my socks not enough. The headphones, usually so efficient in piping in raw inspiration, are clasped too tightly to my ears.

But anyways. 

My fingers continue to tap uselessly at the keyboard, attempting in their dull scratching to carve away the useless, pulpy excess of thought that surrounds me.

My thoughts are like gelatin, they fill up the space I float through.

And I slowly, slowly drown.

Lungs choking on excess aether, I crawl onward.

Like some small, withered creature in some deep, lightless undersea cave, whose very breath is the only form of propulsion he has. He has never known color, never known sound. The only light he knows is the luminescence of the predators hell-bent on swallowing him whole.

But anyways.

I was told to choose one word for this assignment. Choose one word, just one. 

"Well, then what?" says I.

"Well, then you write about it", says Nelson.

Writing? About words? Seriously. 

Look at it this way. Ask an artist, a painter, to paint about a color, and see how quickly he turns his chosen instrument of self expression upon you in a dazzling display of violence.

Ahem.

But anyways.

Perhaps I'm over thinking this. Words are simply words, after all. No one has ever done anything especially important or empowering with them.  No one has ever changed lives with words. They're nothing special. In fact, the simple actuality that the only possible way I could communicate the idea that words are nothing special to you is through words is proof that they are inconsequential. 

Oh wait. 

No, that pretty much makes them a big fucking deal. 

But, anyways. Nelson, this is impossible. How could I possibly take a single word, and the soul, the sole meaning behind a word, and incorporate it into an overarching theme of a single body of text of any varying length? Gods above, it's just not a task humans are able to accomplish.

But anyways.