Words on White

handwriting Words on White

Thoughts written across blank pages. Meaningful at first yet now empty of meaning. They start as a thought stream, slowly re-forming into something with which to buy bread, wine, tomatoes. Slowly making meaning not only to me but to those with whom I will work.

This seemed both important and useful at the time, yet I know they are both important and important, use less and useful. A necessary, or so I think, step on the journey to a new path. A path not just me, but for what I hope to help others to discover. Sometimes we are both willing and happy to just wander, yet I find so often others (and that includes parts of me) seek help or permission or a route map or even the illusion of safety. For that is what it is – it is all an illusion, a carefully crafted one designed to keep us safe, an illusion ultimately of our own making yet so richly informed, likely even guided, by others. The Bible, the Torah, the Tao – all I guides yet only guides, for ultimately we must all find our own path to righteousness, enlightenment, that new job, whatever…

The words call out to me. They no longer capture me. Sometimes they shine a light in the darkness, sometimes they block out the very light I am seeking.

They are only words.

This is only a book.

Nothing is real.

 

 

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