Begardened

"The words I write are etched in these pages, the words I mean are etched in my heart. The words I speak are etched in my environment, this reality, God's Creation. If the word has been made flesh, is it governed in the same way as dust given life? I imagine that which you write might etch on the pages where you wrote it, but on a fundamental level am I not a page written? I imagine the words that you mean are written on your heart, but such a place is secret from me. That said, if our hearts are in line then the words that we mean are likely similar, and mean the same things in all the right ways. Though our pages and ink may differ, and are certainly intertwined to some degree, I believe fully that these volumes reconcile from each of our perspectives, and that their product is amazing beyond measure, independent of the perspective used, perhaps even independent of all possible perspectives used simultaneously (though that may need to remain a mystery, for obvious reasons). Anyway, I just thought I would show up here again on this night, with perhaps something new to add, something to consider anyway, before you say your piece."

There is a moment of silence as the words settle to the beautiful flowers in the garden like dew, illuminated by the moon just about full. They dance out toward the stars as well, at speeds varying between the sound on the airwaves and the sparks in the EM field and the speed at which imagination and dream might move, to every light God created from first until last. A brother speaks.

"It is a beautiful night, and there is no rush. Why don't we linger a while and consider words spoken?"