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.
