I enter the House of Words every day to find the appropriate ones that describe my stories. These stories come as pictures in my head, snapshots that fade no sooner they appear, like dreams. My job is to run after these illusive images with a quiver of memory arrows and shoot them down, sticking them to the page; then retrace my path and attempt to describe them with words pulled out of the House of Words.
Sometimes I am stuck for words in the heat of emotion: I open my mouth but only heat blazes from my eyes and ears; my mouth remains a void, and my heart a mass of pain.
Or I use the wrong words in speech. I use wrong words when I am lazy and relaxed, especially with loved ones or with those I feel safe. And those words cut and hurt and cause pain, even to me upon later reflection.
I must tour the House of Words thoroughly and often, practise and play with its wealth of choices, store the good ones for future use, index and memorize them, so that at the right time the precise word will jump out, written or spoken, to illuminate my thoughts, desires, fears and pains, revealing my depth to an audience.

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