Some of us train ourselves to be a peddler of words. Or as people who can assess and value words.
We package words, we polish them up and then we hawk our wares on streets of the real world. No matter how great or small, we hope to make a dazzling show.
As time goes by, we surround ourselves with other word-hawkers, spending long hours in our smithies, talking to each other, supporting each other, but also distancing ourselves an inch at a time until our little corner of the pavement starts seeming like a world.
The real world.
All the while, the great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world moves on, carrying on its business of selling batteries, carpets, jackets, phones, tiles and other gadgets of life. For (wo)man cannot live on words alone.
Fortunately, for many a skilled wordsmith, life continues in the warm glow of the roadside smithy. But for others, there is often a rude awakening at inconvenient times.
The wordsmith discovers that his little corner is somewhat superfluous to the real world. His stories are tangential to its existence, his concerns unreal, his fare not quite of value to anyone but his own little group of friends who have or will soon be jolted into an equal experience of reality. They have all been on a heady ride to a magic land which was bound to end sometime. For they haven’t been training themselves on how to pick the right goods to peddle.
And then the wordsmith, not knowing how to make batteries, or carpets, or phones, or tiles turns to telling stories about them–stories about how the battery, this one, will transform your life, or how the carpet, this pattern on it, will set you apart from your neighbours, or how your jacket will make a mark if it only has this name on it.
Having lived in the corner of the world for a big part of his life, the wordsmith sees more, and knows more about the world than its denizens within it. So his stories are happy but dangerous and he is now as happy as can be in the real world.
bottledworder 
Comments welcome