sometimes words are just words

Sometimes words are just words. Their meanings are vague and unformed in your head. You play with them, you try to fit them into sentences by yourself when you are bored, you sound them out in your mouth. You think you know what they should be. You have an idea, anyway. Like play-doh, they have texture; but when you hold them in your hands, they remain there, unyielding. 

In some moments, words that were alien to you only a minute ago will clarify. If you've done chemistry experiments in school, you'd remember the joy of sometimes when you get it right, the whole mixture will uncloud and turn into something clearer than water; clearer than mornings in the moment you put on your glasses. These words will fit your thoughts most perfectly, as if no other word were made for that thought.  

The simplest of words can stump you at times. Corollary, for example. Or baritone. Of course you know the words. You weigh them, you hear them, you even use them at times when it comes together in sentences. Sometimes you don't even know there is a word for some things. How often have you heard someone say overmorrow? Not even Microsoft Word recognizes it as a word. 

But sometimes, words are just words. You don't know why you say them. You don't know why you hear them. Hollow and unrelenting hollow unrelenting, loose and senseless senseless loose. They flit in and out, a radio that is playing on its lowest volume. 

You hold on to them anyway, because words, they keep you whole.