Like music, they are mere ripples in the medium, nonexisting without us.
These strange, literal scratchings on surfaces seem as good as rust, or fissures on some forgotten planet.
What on Earth could they convey? These lifeless relics of time gone by? These footprints of the dead?
What do words convey but life itself?!
Perennially present. And, more than life, words carry a kind of love: It takes one living heart to write them down. It takes another one to read them. To understand and become them. The reader looks down and sees, represented, feels, internalised, some kind of remembrance of self. Some kind of shared striving.
We are all writing this nonsense to a collective self:
Humanity looks down on words and feels a kind of rapture, like Narcissus, consumed by his own reflexion.
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