written words have been worked

I feel myself always working life through without pause. Working with words. Examining their actions and expressions that are impressed upon the page. And lastly working the relationship the words have with other nouns and with the perform of actions. I feel myself becoming invested in the language of an inaudible soul. I stare within the transcended world that hangs above the surface text and between these two realms of real my eyes stare within. I am looking for the word I feel feels most. Ultimately, I want writing to be an art piece—philosophically unnerving but courageously risking criticism and not receiving immediate comprehension. I want the writing page to be a pattern design—experience fabrication imagination hope pleasure principle all threaded through the materiality of the text—as the sentences must fall into set as a strand of pearls. Romanticizing memory as a ploy to honor time, and breathe beauty into the not blossomed—into the flowers cut too soon to ripen and grow. I stare, my figuring eyes fixated on the words below me. I want each word to feel immensely and act suggestively. My words need to be characters on their own—capable of being mused at, followed, mimicked, influential. I want each word to pierce the eye with an image so heavy, that the head hurts less while the eye feels the weight of seeing more.