I never found the rigidity in our language, never had time for it. While others debated the rules of “who” vs “whom” or if a comma should be come before “and”, I was writing poetry on the bathroom walls.
There stuffy air discussing arbitrary rules like an Iron Maiden, a mute screaming.
I hug irregardless, wrapped him around me like a warm blanket. I write in prosetry, told every genre to shove it as I picked them apart.
And I’m not going to stop.
Language is Google directions, we writers blindly follow.
For a while, you need them, those first fledgling timid steps , just learning the skills need to navigate.
After a while, it’s time to toss them out the window and just drive.
Language is the roads we cruise down. We should take the detours, swim around in under-discovered canyons while basking in the glow of our own imagination.
After all, rules are only rules because somewhere along the line, we decided they should be.
Nothing is set in stone.