Words are all equal.
Yes, some are long.
Yes, some are short.
Yes, some are complicated.
Yes, some are simple.
But in the end, they all have a meaning.
They all have a definition.
They all have a purpose.
And when put together to become a phrase, they can either be empowering, influential, hurtful, or detrimental.
All words are equal.
Yes, some are short and long, simple and complicated.
But in the end, they all have a meaning, a definition.
If all words are equal, which they are, why are some capitalized?
Why are some words capitalized while others aren't?
Why do some words get to boast a big, mighty capital letter just because they were first in a sentence?
Why do some words get to boast a big, mighty capital letter just because they are considered proper?
Why do some words, words that are selfish like the word I, get to boast a big, mighty capital letter?
Why do we capitalize words?
When all words have their own meaning.
When all words are part of a sentence.
When all words serve a purpose in literature.
What makes some words entitled to a capital letter when they are just like the same as the other words?
When all words are equal...
Words...
Words, to me, an individual with a loud mind and a quiet voice, are all equal. Since they all serve the same purpose.
So, why is that, just like how some words own big, capital letters while others don't, are some words preferred over others? Why do English teachers encourage children to use more descriptive words, more eloquent words, more professional words, when all words are equal to one another?
If everyone thought that words are all equal, we wouldn't have made a thesaurus.
But yet, in this world that we live in, we are encouraged, in such a young age, to use the thesaurus.
I like synonyms.
And antonyms.
And homonyms.
And all the other "nyms" in literature.
I like synonyms only for the complimenting of their meanings with their friends.
Like house and home.
Though they both have the same meaning, each has their own feeling, making them each have their own identity.
I also like antonyms only for the contrasting of their meanings with their enemies.
Like love and hate.
I like synonyms and antonyms because it reminds me of the complimenting and contradicting of the colors that make us.
Some complimenting while others contradicting.
Synonyms and antonyms bring diversity in literature.
Though I like synonyms and antonyms, I hate when people are encouraged to use the thesaurus.
I don't hate the thesaurus, itself, but I do hate the way it is used.
Don't hate the object.
Hate the intention.
Words are all equal. They all have a meaning to them. So why do people deem some words are better than the others? Why do some people prefer longer words over smaller words? Why do some people prefer words that the majority of the population can't even pronounce?
Just to sound professional.
Just to sound eloquent.
Just to sound knowledgeable.
Just to sound educated.
Why do some people prefer the word "pleasant" over "nice?"
Don't both words have similar meanings?
Yes, one may be longer than the other.
But it doesn't make it any better.
At least, to my eyes that is.
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What the hell am I even thinking about?
I lay my head against the wall of my room, eyes staring at my darkened room lit only by the moon's soft and pale rays.
There are bottles scattered around my room again.
Empty ones.
One bottle.
Two bottle.
Three bottle.
Four.
So many bottles scattered on the floor.
One bottle snuggles closely against my fingertips, my wrist rotating around as the liquid within it swirls.
I don't even remember why I'm drinking.
I don't even remember how many I drank.
All that I remember are my thoughts about capitals and thesauruses.
I chuckle as I feel the warmth of the bottle's liquid flush my face into a cherry-red, my mind spinning into a drunken form.
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Enough, enough, enough with capitals.
Words are equal.
No, no, no more thesauruses.
Words are equal.
Stop, stop, stop with the inequality.
We are all equal.
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I take another chug from the bottle.
As the moon tucks me into her blanket of dreams.
YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
EspiritualA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.
