If you remain very silent, if you are still, you will feel a ripple. It is a small ripple, the faintest hint of a murmur of a flutter of a lightwave, but it is there. It is the silent tug at our hearts, the undercurrent of our lives, the silver threads of being that gently wind and unwind as we move and dance and play.

This is the fabric of us. This is the story of us. This is our past and our calling. This is the space where words are found, before words are born.

You

December 30, 2008

It’s strange. I feel as though I know you. Chances are, reader, that we have never met. Still, I feel as though I can get a feeling of you, your presence, your reading of these words.

But don’t be distressed. I know nothing about you, of course. I could cross you on the street and we would not recognize each other. You remain safe in your own little world, and I in mine.

The only thing I can know for certain is that you are here, right now, reading these words, following them one by one by one, until the end of the sentence.

Exit

December 29, 2008

You trust in words. You depend on them to give you directions, to take your hand, to show the way. You adorn your signs with words, your shops, your crossroads, your thoroughfares. You would be lost without words; you would not survive one second. They tell you what to think, how to feel.

But see how brittle they are, how sharp, how easily they snap and break. Feel how they can never represent the deepest and most eloquent yearnings of the heart. See how they fail you at every corner, and how this failure is a way out, an exit sign of salvation.

Trust instead in the space between words, in space itself, to lead you home.

Mess

December 27, 2008

The words bubble; today they are unstoppable. They gush and spill all over the page, slip-sliding toward new territory in creases, folds and corners, feeling their way about a yet-untold story. I cannot control them, they are no longer under my care. They have sprouted feet and wings and head willy-nilly, pell-mell, helter-skelter for the border.

There they go, against my best intentions, leaving behind a cluttered and chaotic mess. What will people say?

Firstly

December 26, 2008

You must not believe a word I say. You must understand that everything I write here is make-believe, just as your whole world when you were a child was make-believe, larger and more real than life. You roamed anywhere you wished with your heart fully open; you climbed the trees of your heart’s desires; you coloured in your wishes with freedom and majesty. Nobody told you to stop. I write because I must.

I write because, in the dark paleness of an unforgivable night, it is all we have – the words that pour forth, like ink on white slate, the commemorations of our fleeting hours. We write because we exist; we write because only words can exist.