Oh and oh.

Oh and oh.

And oh to have realized what should be spoken and told with no doubts or uncertainty of how they would be understood, with the definite belief that the words would be misunderstood, but still hold in one's breast the courage to utter the words to oneself in silence, realizing new depths and new meanings to the words with every repetition, that brings a smile to the face and a new little shake to the heart that feels like a water filled balloon, jiggling in joy, wondering if at all the words would ever be spoken out to someone who should and must listen to the words, the someone, the meaning behind the birth of all words thought of, the words that define what is and what could and should be, what is sensed from within, the one that could never bring oneself to pour them all out in words, or hoist them up on top of tall poles and mountains, fluttering with the world for all to see, and the words that are born in solitude when longing brings out new ways of expression to the apparently un-understandable emotions of no obvious stability but the presence of which could and should never be denied, even in the lack of any verbal means of expression.

Oh and oh.