The Boy Who Almost Ran Out of Words

Some people hear a word and understand it.

I hear a word and suddenly, I’m thinking about meteors, jellybeans, and whether ducks ever get bored.

It starts with one word. One simple word.

Today, it’s "gravity."

Gravity means things fall down. But what if they didn’t? What if gravity decided to take a break? Would my chair float? Would Miss Mavis float? Would my thoughts drift right out of my head, like dust in sunlight? Could I catch them? Keep them?

"Mark!"

Oh. Right. School.

The classroom hums—chalk tapping a rhythmic beat against the board, chairs scraping like nails on a chalkboard, someone whispering behind me. The sharp odor of floor wax clings to the air, mixing with the faint lemony scent of Miss Mavis’s perfume. Her voice, firm but not unkind, cuts through it all.

"Are you with us?"

I nod, too fast. Yes. But my brain whispers, No.

I’m still with the ducks. And the floating. And now I’m wondering—if you jumped in space with no gravity, would you just keep going? Would you ever stop? Or would you bounce between stars forever, a human pinball? Could you aim for a planet and land like a superhero? Oh! What if gravity had different flavors? Like watermelon gravity, or cinnamon gravity—

"Mark, can you tell me what I just said?" Miss Mavis’s voice is closer now.

I open my mouth, but my brain is too full of everything else.

I could tell her about ducks. Or meteors. Or floating forever. But none of that is what she wants.

"Um… something about… gravity?"

A few kids giggle. Heat floods my face, creeping up from my neck until my skin feels stretched and tight, but I don’t look at them. Miss Mavis sighs, crossing her arms, but her expression isn’t mad. Not exactly.

"Yes, but I need you to focus. Try to stay on track."

Stay on track. Like a train. Trains don’t get distracted. But what if they did? What if a train saw something really interesting, like a squirrel wearing sunglasses, and it just decided to go off the rails and follow it? That would be bad. Or would it? Maybe it would discover something new.

"Mark!"

I blink.

"Sorry. I'm listening."

But I’m not. I’m trying. Trying to hold onto one thought before it branches into fifty more. Trying to make my brain quiet.

Miss Mavis exhales through her nose, the faintest rustle of fabric as she crosses her arms, her fingers tapping against her elbow in a steady, thoughtful rhythm.

"Let’s try again. Can you explain gravity in one sentence?"

One sentence? That’s impossible. Gravity isn’t just one thing. It’s apples falling and moons orbiting and astronauts floating and ducks not floating and planets pulling and people standing and the way my pencil drops when I let go and—

"Mark?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. My fingers curl around the edge of my desk, the wood smooth and cool beneath my touch. The air presses in on me, heavy with the scent of floor wax and the warmth of too many bodies. The walls seem to inch closer.

Make it simple.

"Gravity is the force that pulls things toward a bigger thing."

A pause. Then—Miss Mavis smiles.

"Exactly. See? You had it all along."

A breath escapes me, slow and uneven, like the air itself was tangled in my thoughts. The room stretches wide again. The sounds, the whispers, the chalk. Normal again.

But my brain? My brain is still moving. Because now I’m thinking—

A memory.

Second grade. Miss Mavis had asked a question in class. Three words would have been enough. I used fifty. Miss Mavis sighed, smiled, and said,

"God gives us only so many words in a lifetime, Mark, and I think you’ve already used yours up."

The class had laughed. My stomach had twisted, but only for a second. I wondered if I was supposed to feel embarrassed, if maybe I should learn to use fewer words. But then—no. That wasn’t how my brain worked.

That wasn’t how I worked. Words weren’t just something I spoke; they were something I lived. I remember blinking, my legs swinging under my chair, my hands warm against my desk. I never worried, though. Because I knew—I knew—God gave me extra. How else could I ask so many questions? How else could I chase every idea?

If gravity is a pull, what pulls ideas together? Why do some thoughts stick while others float away? What if my brain has too much gravity? Or not enough? What if thoughts are like stars, and my brain is a whole universe?

Maybe next time, I’ll ask Miss Mavis that. Maybe she won’t have an answer. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe some questions don’t need answers—just more questions.

If I remember.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!

Words, words, words.

They skitter like pebbles down a hill, tumbling, colliding, never still. They are the heartbeat of my thoughts, the rhythm of my world. They are me. If thoughts were marbles, mine would never stay in the jar. They’d spill across the floor, roll under furniture, disappear into the corners of the universe.

I tried once. To sit in total silence. To let my mind be still. To make myself small, as if folding my thoughts away could make me normal. But silence wasn’t empty—it was filled with waiting, with the hum of unsaid things, with the press of words just begging to be let loose. But then I wondered—who decided silence was the opposite of noise? And what if silence is just a different kind of sound? Like how white is technically all colors mashed together?

I think about the words that fill my brain. They don’t stop. They’re like sparks, lighting up one thought after another. I wonder if anyone else feels this way, or if I’m the only one whose mind never really rests. Is that how it’s supposed to be?

I hear a word and suddenly, my brain takes off again, a whole new world opening up.

And in that moment, I realize that this is just how my mind works, a whirlwind of thoughts and ideas, and maybe that's okay. Some people hear a word and understand it.