So eloquent and prestigious certain utterances are as to assume a worth beyond truth such that most seem to see them as from some realm of sorcery. Not so. All, from gutter to god, sway from lips as charmed or loathed as the next and no righteous specificity is laudable. Nay, the beasts we are and our hooved and winged and finned kin alike are one and the same. Not one is more beautiful despite articulation and annunciation, for perception is not reality. The void so lad betwixt us is no more than that same appearance feigned by scholars of anthropological announcements – because, any child will sing with hounds and chirp with turtles on a whim of blind delight and yet the so-called valiant, although vulgar, vaunting scripts of vacant value are verified as vindication of existence.
We have no claim on the trembling of air that rings in ears. No more than mother nature does when walls of water in one place warble far and wide and wider still around the world. For as the smallest insect bats it wings or chews the flesh of bark in all but silent verse so is the whole of our abilities snapped shut in the vacuum beyond. I do not vilify vouching but rather do I acknowledge and admire all the arts. For in our cloister of chance, this chasm cast around our clan or mortal flesh, so is the effort made in all our names the sole scale of solace against the searing silence. We are duty bound to scream as monkeys do and fly and swim and breach the bounds of life, on page especially. For it is our true temple of thought, our tumultuous tempest tamed, yes, but ours and ours alone, as earthlings.
What wonders lay beyond our pearl that none here yet peer upon? Ancient tomes of titillating sinew so woven soundly in a choir of parchments and syntax as to throw the mind into whirling splendours that would have one lose oneself beyond even all our greatest works. Or, perhaps, some frightening history of wars that we were unaware of wherein worlds were wiped of life and laid to waste by weapons way beyond our means. May it be, even, that on a tablet somewhere is proof that our own creation is the jest of some madness so insatiable? Or, however, as is just as much a chance as any other, there may be nothing but the listing lulls of yet discovered space waiting to be inhabited by our chapters and our stanzas.
Either way all words wain in want and main and as they do we do too with all that lies within us, regardless of the worth assigned. Know, dear friend, that all is but a whiff of time in flux and nothing chimes but love and luck and longing lost on all that lingers in our minds. Still are the greatest books yet written on the shoulders of those yet to be. And their offspring not here know will come and raise again the bar by which we call ourselves that little measure more than animals. So go. Go and run the gamut from the gaudy, glossy covers of the vanities of pop all the way up to the everlasting worth in print. Read and know and love and hate and care for our sweet knowing of letters. Share them with your children and your partners. Share them with your enemies alike. But most all, in your most private moments, when all the world is shut out and you alone are kept by your imagination, enjoy the written word.
Stephen Fahey
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