Intrinsic Delight

When I was quite young, I held the belief that I had invented the word “broth.”

I have memories of lying in my bed, rehearsing sounds, stumbling into that set of sounds and thinking, I’ve never heard this before. Memories of joyously rolling the word around in my brain, over a silent tongue, testing it out. Tasting what it would feel like if voiced, but not saying it. Keeping it to myself, as my own private discovery. Feeling no yearning, no need to disclose it to anyone, because if I did, some of the sacredness would be gone. The private possibility of my own mind would be diffused, reduced by each listener and their sense of what I had accomplished or not accomplished, their own capacity to be impressed or believe that inventing words was impressive.

I didn’t want that. Couldn’t have that. At that age the allure of accolade didn’t have the pull it has come to have, so many years later, and in that way I had no need for approval. This was a time of intrinsic delight.

This post is part of Think Kit by SmallBox. Today’s prompt: Pretend you’re writing your autobiography. Give us your first line, a first chapter, or even just an image. What’s the story of you?

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