dictionary.of.obscured.sorrows.

I admit, it’s perfectly alright to express yourself using only the words you inherited from your parents. It’s alright to put ketchup on everything, and only dance ironically, and never learn another language, and never fight and never make mistakes. It’s alright to go to a party and only talk to the people you know. It’s alright if you climb back down the waterslide, and wait ten years before you tell someone how you felt about them. It’s alright to die in your bed, leaving a vault of treasure that goes to the state. But if you listen closely, many of the words we use to keep our lives afloat are now hulking derelicts, rust-eaten and bullet-holed, piled up with so much baggage and barnacles they’re sinking beneath our feet. We should cut them adrift, set them ablaze and let them rest; they’ve done their work.