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.
writer: I have been looking for you whole day.
Word: Why? Don’t you know I am always here?
writer: But I cannot see you.
Word: I can see you.
writer: Where are you exactly? In all these books? These famous quotes from other writers?
Word: I am everywhere.
writer: How can I see you?
Word: See with your heart and not your mind. Nice talking to you. What a glorious day! I think I am taking a walk in the garden now. Bye.
Beautiful words stir my heart. I will recite a lovely poem about the king, for my tongue is like the pen of a skillful poet. (Psalm 45:1)
I chanced upon this garden in my walk. The autumn sun brought out the best of the flowers and the grass. Even the trees were basked in a cheerful sheen of light. When I look at this scene today I realize how every living plant leans toward where the sun is. The garden becomes alive and thriving because of the light that draws out the best in the living. Some books have this effect on me. When I read through the pages I find the light of life glistening everywhere. I am drawn to them. A garden of good words.
Proverbs 16:24 Pleasant words are like a honeycomb, Sweetness to the soul and health to the bones.