We literally exist to be consumed,by those who made us, by those we create, and by those who follow, in endless forms, all imprisoned within the entropic decay of the human condition.
At times, I can't immediately nail the texture of words, where the words I use feel intuitively off, and it grinds the shit out of me.
It's when a word technically fits, but doesn't carry the right pressure, momentum, slant, temperature, or grain of what I'm trying to convey.
I experience words as something tactile, a near-miss is more violent and abrasive than not having a word at all, because of the lack of fidelity to the piece I am writing. I almost feel a bit violated by the inability to grasp what it feels like internally. Ugh.
A symbol, while eternal in its grace, is haunted by the very reality it chose to leave untouched. A human, while mortal in its becoming, is imperfect, yet experiences the very scent and texture of warm skin.