Words. Thousands of words on the tip of my tongue, waiting. I am silent. Words cannot come. Now, as I am as limited as any, I see why these stuttering mortals curse the beauty of words. They only go so far by themselves and when you have not the power to capture them, then you are lost. I am the author, the creator of these mortals, but as a foolish experiment I set myself in the world I created. Some, then, rejoice in a picture but one picture is nothing to a hundred thousand words.
I am the goddess of words. Words make up all. They fall from my lips like rain, scattering on the page like little jewels for people to find. I have always reveled in the beauty of language, but in this world, you cannot say half of what you wish without sounding deranged. I whisper enchantments on the wind—left unheard by the one whom I wish them to be sent to. My lips form words, but they can not be heard if ears are closed. I scribble silly words that nobody will ever see or hear. No one is around to see them.
I walk alone, ever lonely, seeing no living being. Except for now. For I am more than them—they are human, but I am more. Immortal. Yes—that is what I said. I have had forever to learn how words are spun. I thought I had succeeded. But I have not. I realize this, and words come—a dam breaks. Words crawl out first slowly then faster, faster, babbling nonsense prose that only sounds real if you put it on paper. Babbling, whispering spells and enchantments of the heart, shouting words meant to sum up how I feel and words come faster, till I am spun up in them. I am language—I am spun with words. Suddenly, I am silent. Waiting. Then, slowly, he begins to speak.