I stoop over, bending like they tell you not to. A dull, warm pain blooms in my lower back. In my hands is a small broom and dustpan I’m using to collect my thoughts. I reach down and sweep together the small pile I’ve collected, pushing them onto the dustpan and then slowly, stiffly standing up straight. I carry the small pile to the trash cautiously, being careful not to move to fast and spill them back upon the floor. I haven’t had a chance to collect my thoughts in a little while, but the pile isn’t as big as I’d expected, and I feel a bit of regret at the fact that it seems like my thoughts didn’t amount to more. I made sure to kneel down and reach far back behind the sofa and under the tables to collect as much as I could, but all that accumulated was this neat little pile in my dustpan. Now I’m paused, standing before the trashcan wondering if any of these thoughts should be saved. I poke through them with my finger but can’t find a single one worth keeping, and tip the dustpan towards the ground to watch the thoughts sift like sand into the trash.
Talk is cheap, and the only true way to measure a man is by his actions. But there is a connection between one’s thoughts, words, and deeds that ultimately, I believe, begins with the word. Just what that connection is, and how far it can take us, however, is something I’m still struggling to discover, something, ironically enough, I’m still not positive it’s actually possible to explain with speech. But I can try.