The writer was hurling the words at the paper like a bouncy ball against a wall, but only a few would return each time. The rest would stay on the page, congregating in small circles, saying hellos and goodbyes, meeting new friends.
He reached deep into his pockets and found big words, lonely words, exotic words. Some were stuck together like glue and he figured they belonged connected. From this collection he picked a few to put on display, like in a museum. He dropped them off on the page and they joined the growing party. The others stayed in storage in his pockets, hoping for their chance to shine.
Later, he took the words left in his pockets with him on a walk. They danced around him and crawled up his arm, all screaming for attention. Their behavior was quixotic: the writer enjoyed their enthusiasm but was instead searching for more pensive words. A few leaked out of his pockets and enjoyed the sun on the freshly cut grass. From these, he picked a few up off the ground and vowed to use them later. The rest he shook off and left for another.
As he slept that night some words slipped into his dreams, occupying conversations and creating strange dreamscapes. At daybreak, only a few of these words were remembered, but he placed them carefully in his pockets to play with later.
As the morning wore on, he moseyed to a coffee shop. On the way, he decided to keep that word, too: moseyed. The dark smells of coffee seemed to tell a story, and he chose a few to borrow but promised to return them. Across the coffee shop, the stares of a mysterious girl exchanged a series of soundless words, but he felt they were too beautiful to keep.
As finished his coffee, he noticed that it had begun to rain. He picked up a few more words, mostly onomatopoeias he collected from the rain. As he walked outside in the dripping, oozing rain, a few more dropped into his pockets. The smell of the pavement as the first rain came in: petrichor. How the rain made him feel: halcyon. The sound of the rain: susurration. These were good words, interesting ones and the writer was grateful for the serendipity of the rain.
Returning from his morning coffee, he poured them all on the table and began to sort them out: big and small, dark and light, simple and complex. He began to play matchmaker, pairing them together: verbs and nouns, subjects and predicates.
At first, it was a cacophony of words: a chaotic mess, an orchestra with no conductor. But as he began to keep time with the wave of his pen, the talented individual words realized the others around them and began to play in sync. The writer was a conductor of words: this was his natural bailiwick.
Out of chaos came order. Soon the cacophony moved to a symphony – the words became both the musicians and the dancers.
Satisfied with the progress his words had made, he let them go. He shared them with others and through that act of sharing, the words took on a life of their own. Readers and listeners kidnapped them, borrowed them, tasted them. The journey of these words had been long: this was only one stop of many.
As this group of words moved to their next occupation, he was not sad. His hold on the words was emphemeral at best. With his pockets empty, the process began again. He was hungry for words. Looking at the blank page in front of him, the ebullient writer only saw the future: only bright, unbridled possibility.