Onlife

The most I can do is write. And I'm not even sure I'm good at it.  Words seem to be missing all the time. I guess it's me, unable to find them. But sometimes I suspect it's their fault. They are good at hiding, staying away even when I'm tired to chase them. Or they run away, everywhere, even when corralled judiciously, like scared sheep. I wish I had a tireless shepherd dog to help me. Words are mismatched all the time. Like a jar full of nuts and bolts. Too tight, too big, too large, too small... and when they almost fit, forcing them will only strip them. So with gentle patience, as if you were not in a hurry, as if time were not an enemy of semantics, you must find the few that go together, the growling sound of the shooked jar echoing in your mind. Hoping that care and tenacity may deliver the occasional bingo. Words slide all the time. Mischievous like slime you can collect but cannot catch. Misleadingly flexible, actually amorphous, generic words that cover a