Vivi Rathbone Words are a tool and a trap, Expression and limitation. What is the point of using words to express indescribable sentiments? Confusion converted into prose is just that. Circling confusion diffracts infinitely. I look for meaning in the ripples. I wish I could tell how I felt with a color It would be bright and deeply saturated hue. With the weather It would be temperate and sunny, the air ripe with a tingle of oncoming storm. With a glance It would be my fickle-colored eyes open, honest thoughts readable through my irises. With a sensation it would be warm and misty, sticky and humid yet comfortably refreshing. With a fruit It would be an out of season craving, like watermelon in winter. With a song It would be a drawn out crescendo, and I would dance to it. But all of these would be equally as useless as words. So what’s the point of having conversation?