Pole Mic

Peaceful, serene, quiet, all those different synonyms, they jump in and tussle around in your head until one emerges victorious, able to describe the scene before you. Battered and bruised, out goes an adjective, the full force of your great intellect behind it, buoying it, borderline abusing it, because it needs a hospital and a doctor, badly, but you need a capable descriptor and this is the one that won out. Is it any surprise that when you throw it out it sounds weak and inadequate?

It's very weak, and very tired, and it would like for you to let it rest, but no, you, in your infinite wisdom and sagacity, you trot it out over and over again, over and over and over again, because you insist on making a word wear out its welcome well before you let it finally say goodbye. What you don't understand, the comprehension that escapes your mind's mighty grasp, is that people don't end up hating the word, they end up hating its captor, jailer, master, owner - you. They cheer for the gladiator, but not you. They pity the fighter, but not you. Never you.