Man of Words

I heard somewhere that drama characters are made up out of words. In this drama that we call life (okay, I'm being schmaltzy, but bear with me here) are we not made up out of words too? Do words not compose our thoughts, precede our actions, and in some cases, instigate them?

But I digress. I'm a lover of language, and I've fallen in love with the words again.

What if I could make the perfect man by writing him into existence? Alas, this is impossible. Words are on a page, pixels on a screen, mere signs that point to things. They can't be the things themselves.

But what if I could get creative, really have some fun with the English language? I could make a cardboard cutout, dig up some romantic comedies, and record all kinds of sweet nothings into a tape recorder. I could have him propped up in my doorway; he could wave to me as I pass by. But that's not right; that's not right at all.

I could buy a box of poetry magnets - the ones with words and phrases like "love" and "honey." I could build them into the shape of a man. I could put him on the side of my fridge, facing out. But that's not right; that's not right at all.

I could take out a personal ad. But what does a word-lover do with such useless abbreviations as SWF, SWPF or WASP? What could I say, when I am constricted to such a tiny blurb? That's not right; that's not right at all.

I could write a sonnet if I could figure out how to restrict myself to rhyme and couplet. I could write a blazon to my beloved, an idealized love song. But he might not understand. A real person cannot dwell in a world made out of words. Even the most honeyed would not do. And that's not right. That's not right at all.