They spill from us. Pouring from our fingers as blood from an open wound. Sometimes, that too is true. Depending on what they are, where they come from, what has initiated the fall. Words are like shadows, like leaves, like rain. They hide, they creep, they sneak up on us and pounce, devouring us with their all consuming power. They float gently, from lofty branches, they sprinkle, flow steady, or drown us in deluge.
When you write, how do your words mostly come? A trickle? A downpour? A raging river, sleepy ocean, stagnate pond? If you're like me, it depends on the day, the hour, the phase of the moon. Our words are subject to our emotions. Perhaps, our emotions should be subject to our words.
What do you want your words to say? Do you want them to encourage or drive onward? Do you want them to provoke thought, stir up anger, incite action? Make someone cry, laugh, throw bricks? I've read books that have done all of that. I read "Three Cups of Tea" and wanted to build a school for girls in remote Afghanistan. I read "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" and laughed until milk came out of my nose. I read "The Lord of the Rings" and did all of the above and threw it against a brick wall. Twice.
Words are power. They build up. They tear down. They make us sit, be still. They beckons, they drive away. They force us to action, to dive, to fly.
What do you want your words to do? What do they ask of you? "Give me wings," they cry. "Just give me wings!"