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“Words are expensive, use less words, not useless words”

People like their words cooked different ways. I like mine simple and straight. Deliberate. I don’t like it unnecessarily spiced. I like them light in a dark way, plain yet hidden in sight. I like them contrasting enough to make you understand about not understanding if they were any other way.

I like them spicy in the tongue but chilly in the stomach. I like them light yet heavy enough to leave you full but still with a hunger for more. I like my words subtle, just on the right side of soft, not overcooked or garnished too much that they become a garden. 

I like my words found on a foreign cuisine. Displayed on a fancy magazine for all to gush at their awesomeness. But I also want them on the farmer’s market. Straight outta the farm with dirt and mud giving assurance they aren’t fake.

I like my words found on an evening market on the street. I don’t enjoy the taste when they become an item on the mall, branded, deemed worthy for an elite few. Wares from the street market are fresh and colorful, they don’t have labels and do not have heavy price tags which make them affordable.

I like my words served hot but not hot enough to scald the tongue. I like my words as I like my coffee; sugar free, just milk. The bitterness of coffee lingering, simmered down by a little creamer. The amazing aroma ambushing the air I breathe in.

I like my words as the water I drink. Colorless, odorless and tasteless. Clear enough to see through it. Cold, not yet ice chilled and definitely not hot. Clean but not pure, without additives or sweetness yet life giving.

I like my words easily recognized, but when placed side by side they become strangely unfamiliar. You say I have seen this before and before you are done saying that you say to yourself again, there is no way I have seen this before.

I like my words served completely incomplete. I like it dependent enough to be inseparable. Exotic enough to be part of a banquet but bold enough to be a stand-alone meal. I enjoy them when they don’t discriminate. Ready to be an ingredients in a soup of poetry, a cake of fiction, a glass of opinion piece, or a desert of personal essay. A universal local delicacy.

How then do you like yours?

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