Thursday, April 12, 2012

Many Worlds

They grow roots firmly in the dirt. Sprouting from the cracks are leafy branches and vines, their rapid expansion belying their youth. Each word, each idea, seeded deep into the mind. I can't predict how they will change, but I am in a subtle control. I allow it to grow. I watch like a parent watches a child become an individual, poking and prodding here and there in hopes that it's for the best. We die, never really knowing.

2 comments:

  1. I'm a conlanger. (I create languages as a hobby. Or, rather, one language. ) I realize that it wasn't written to be about the creation of a language, but this little paragraph sums up a lot of how I feel about the hobby at times. (How will the language turn out? Good? Bad? Beautiful? Unremarkable?)

    At the stage my conlang is at, it really does have a life of its own. "A subtle control" is what remains. And I'll never know its ultimate destiny.

    Beautiful work. Thank you.

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  2. You're not far off. I was thinking about words themselves and the ideas they represent. I'm glad to hear that you enjoy it.

    Creating a new language sounds fascinating and extremely involving. I'm always thoroughly impressed when someone manages to do it, like Tolkien or the people who invented Klingon.

    Thank you for the comment and good luck!

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