Yes, this is how I express myself. With words because I can't make you see the symbols in my head, because the deep structures of thought and soul cannot be drawn or modeled except by words. A pity they are such fragile things, but then so are our souls. They shatter and we pick them up and hand them to our Maker. "Reassemble?" we beg but we cannot be reassembled. Not quite.
But something better from the brokenness can be drawn. From a distance we appear whole, but move closer and you will see: a thousand shards, broken and beautiful, each one a word we lost and relearned, each one in its own place, though it may not have started there.
Yes this is the only way I know to let you read me, because only a book can be read and books are words and so I say so many of them hoping that somewhere in there you catch the thread of a theme, and tie it 'round your finger, a string to keep ahold of me, a thread to weave with your own, and these characters we are and have been will become, and the threads will twine together and grow strong, and bind us, and undo us.
And we shall lie beneath the rain and it shall wash over us, like God's own mercy it shall wash over us, and from the rain and the dew and the fog will burst forth flowers. And the birds shall sing to us in words we know not, and then, only then, will I know in the birds that you have read my heart.