I Love Words.

Yeats speaks a language I wish was constantly running through my head. Yeats speaks of unrequited love, of heroics, of despair and redundancy, but my most favourite "Yeats Moment" has to be "Aedh Wishes For The Clothes Of Heaven."

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

He writes of my two favourite things, love and dreams. Love enough to give all you have to someone, not wealth or material but even more valuable, dreams. What is a person without a dream? What is a person without love? Where is that love, the one you'd give anything for? Where is the Maude Gonne to my Yeats (without the rejection, of course.)?

Words allow me to question things bigger than my own life, and then use the answers to solve my own problems. They take me out of my own head and make me feel better when nothing else can. Nothing makes me happier than a well put together sentance that makes me think about my perceptions of the world. Yeats does it to me, the movie Dead Peots Society does it. Michael Marshall and Robert Frost are brilliant at making me rethink.

I like quotes that make me question whether or not they actually make sense, for example;

I do beleive though I have found them not, that there may be words which are things.
- Lord Byron (Childe Harold's Pilgrimage)

How can words be things? Can an object be a word as well, a word is just a representation of a thing, is there an overlap? Does this quote mean anything??

Words calm me. Especially words that allow me to sort myself out.