Essay; Selection III, Of The Curation
Words are Sacred
Somewhere in the Great State of Texas…
Words are sacred. I’m not saying all words written are good words or great words or even that all words put together necessarily make sense. Simply all words come from the minds and souls of men.
Language is our domain, our blessing, our curse. Words are sacred. But, as it turns out, one man’s sacred is another’s blasphemy.
We have symbols and words available to us from tens of thousands of years ago. Words that were written on papyrus, carved into stone tablets and on cave walls, inside and outside of monuments, carved into mountainsides, pounded into copper scrolls, tattooed onto bodies; and etched in animal horns. Some preserved some not, some legible some not, some decipherable some not.
We have ancient manuscripts written by both geniuses and madmen and everyone in between on every subject imaginable. Religious writings that are ascribed to God, writings about science and physics and geography and history and mathematics and sociology and alchemy, and — well, the list is endless.
Countless words, wise, and not so wise that have been written since man began to write have simply been lost in time. Gone, vanished; disappeared off the face of the earth. Some I suppose by natural disaster, some by the hand of those that objected to them, and some written in the secret of a person’s soul which never saw the light of day. One has to wonder what humanity lost.
Writing, the putting down of words must also include suicide notes. They too are sacred. It does not matter why men put them down. What matters is that they put them down.
Oh, to be sure, those who wrote and those who write have their reasons. They have facts and figures, (either real or imagined) that they wish others to see agendas they wish to promote, fantastic tales of heroism or failure, or pure fantasies concocted in a brain that smokes with imagination.
On the other hand, they may write because they are crazy, or more than slightly askew of center, obsessive-compulsive, or suffering from delusions and or illusions of grandeur, or maybe, just maybe they believe they have something to say that is of value to other humans which needs to be put down on paper.
Whatever the reason they take the time to put the words or images down, whether for themselves or others, we should be thankful; very thankful. Man prospers because of language and its usage. The welfare of man suffers when the usage of —
the quality of language deteriorates.
So, with thousands of years of writings both behind us historically and current, written by the giants of human endeavor in the fields of storytelling and communication, the question is, what in the world am I doing sitting here, hunched over a keyboard, typing like a madman and does it matter?
Maybe…words are sacred.
G. Orphey
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