by Manjeev Vishvkarma
Marta: What troubles thee, David? Thou hast uttered not a word.
David: Words, Marta, hold no weight if they are not felt in the marrow of their composition, if each utterance is not imbued with the full gravity of its intent.
Marta: Words are but words, David, naught more. They pass from the tongue and fade with the wind.
David: Nay, Marta, thou art mistaken. Each word chosen, each phrase formed, is the delicate distillation of one’s innermost sentiments. A sentence, crafted with care, is not mere speech but a symphony of the soul, an outpouring of the heart’s true essence.
Marta: But, David, doth one not sometimes err in such expression?
David: Ah, Marta, this I know not. Thou must search within thyself to know. For it is in the revisiting of the words spoken, in the parsing of their essence, that one may discern truth from folly. Better it is to withhold false comfort than to grant a hollow echo in reply to that which is earnest.
Literary Latitude 