The Word
I was told to write a story, but also that every word I write would come true. So I stared at the screen and waited.
I could write about love, about peace and joy; blanket this life in an abstract sentence. Weave poetry into the very fabric of existence. But I worried about how true this new truth would be.
I thought about words and tried to trace their origins, before the nouns and sentences, before sighs and grunts, all the way back to those throated vibrations that hummed into a wide expanse of nothing. The Om of a newborn filling the silence with its silence, a meaningless substance that would later be sharpened, textured into gaudy feathers.
I could weave poetry into it. I could finally give weight to the symbols we crafted and carried over centuries on broken backs. There would be no more questioning. Language would be as much a part of reality as the atoms that make up our universe; irrefutable laws permeating space and time — they would exist without us. Long after humanity faded. Complete and relevant. Significant. Purposeful.
If I typed just one line. If I only said something then it would be something. Escape the trappings of philosophy and biased notions, break through the sentimentality and desperate longing. Happiness as real as gravity. Can you imagine?
But what about our mother who gave birth to these fantastic lies? Would my needle draw blood? And how would it feel to know she would not make a sound? Just that beautiful silence she first poured into the world. The playground for our noise and chaos. Our drink among the desert waste.
I was told to write a story, but I walked away.
