So walk gently. Choose your words as if they might outlive you — because they will. In the garden, every syllable is a small immortality.
And yet, there is danger here. Overwatering a word — “love,” “forever,” “sorry” — can rot its root. We see this in the age of digital speech: words multiplied beyond meaning, scattered like plastic petals. The garden’s greatest enemy is not silence, but noise. Noise that pretends to be abundance. Every garden has its shadow. In the northern corner, behind a wall of thorny rose bushes, lies a small, untended plot. This is where words go that were never said. The apology withheld. The confession swallowed. The “I love you” that arrived three years too late. Here, these words grow wild and strange — not beautiful, but honest. They are twisted and pale, for they have never seen the sun of another’s ears. el jardin de las palabras
Because, occasionally — rarely — a word lands exactly as intended. Someone reads a line of poetry and feels their loneliness recognized. A child learns the word “justice” and suddenly sees the world differently. Two lovers, after a fight, find the single syllable “sorry” that is not worn out, but fresh as morning rain. So walk gently