I am reading a book translated from Spanish. The narrator (in first person who started as a young boy of ten years old) described his finding a book which so intrigued him he grew up with it and engaged himself with finding its author’s own life story. He was led to investigate the background of the author and got involved with people associated with the author’s past. The book was about finding the author of another book and his story. A very simple theme. What did the narrator do? He merely went and asked questions from people the other author used to know. I find this book convincingly real even though it was meant to tell another person’s story. By telling others’ life stories the narrator tells his own life story too. Clever. Stories are being written daily even at this very moment by many individuals. Some intersperse with others. Some stand alone. All are about living one way or the other. All use words. Words become alive when they describe or record life. How did humans first discover this way of preserving life, even though it can only be mere moments captured at interval in time and space? Was it by chance? A mystery to our mind. But I do believe that the Creator programed human with this in mind. What is the purpose behind each record of life? Again a mystery. Some records (books) fail to last or worse, to be read at all. Some records last a longer time. But none can boast immortality. So what is the point of writing a book? Why do I write words? I write because I love. Even if it’s a fleeting moment. I love life. Words are life.
The Spirit gives life; the flesh counts for nothing. The words I have spoken to you—they are full of the Spirit and life.