Verbal Storms

The moment a man speaks he is a different person. Words cast a spell on who and what he is, and the hypnotism of it keeps him from realizing it as it is happening. Quiet, alone, and left to his sober senses, he can silence the inner narrative of sentences that roll around incessantly in his mind, and from such an intentional pausing emerges a peace that he can shelter in for the moment. People mistakenly believe that they are at the helm when thoughts are formulated in their heads and their tongues as immediately begin to spew out verbalizations. Yet there is no time to actually think about the thinking or consider what is happening when all these neurons clash and connect with one another at spontaneous speeds. The words simply roll out automatically and the man conveys them with a silly air of conviction. The truth is the words command the man. He himself exists in the space between the verbal storms. It is, in fact, possible for the space to command the words, but for some reason the mere process of speaking is accompanied by an emotional element that literally stupefies a man into a drunkard state —┬áin which most, if not all, of his more intelligent functions vanish into the shadows behind the curtain of the stage.


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