The Written Word

I do cherish the time I am allowed to set forth upon the ground. I have even learnt to see the world through a vision too hard to describe and too difficult for most to comprehend. But I exist and have thought, and I have intelligence enough to gather these words and spill forth from pen to paper to keyboard.
For a long time I have only felt acquainted with the spoken word. Delving into its depth only but infrequently as I prefer silence as opposed to silence’s nemesis. The written word has given me a gift of preparation, peace and conclusions drawn far before my hands can deftly construe these dribblings. So I write, and I write, until my wrist and fingers ache.
During my major neurological crash and burn (which one day I will detail in full obscure glory) I lost my ability to read. So strange for a skill instilled almost from birth be washed away without goodbyes or a “I’ll see you soon”. It did leave behind a partial snippet of itself. I was able to read individual words but a whole sentence was out of the question. Comprehension no longer existed in the realm of my mind.
Strangely enough, I could still write. So I wrote. Proof reading was a major difficulty. The words, no matter how long I stared at them, drew no conclusions to being part of literary construction. Still, I had written them, I knew they were real. Day after day I would write and reread. It was like being reborn into childhood. Eventually, I regained my lost friend, reading.