The words write us

A story, attempting motivation.

What I may say, this is the question. What hidden little truths, obscured to you, revealed to me, might I reveal to you without fate's permission?

What philosophical, life-altering mote of knowledge may be bestowed upon you should you just listen to me?

This is the question, an infectious, insatiable itch. One that, when scratched, breaks open and seeps its innermost contents.

Exposes itself to the eye; grotesque and mystifying, disgusting and intriguing, any truth worth knowing is undoubtedly as profound as a battle scar; a testament to experiences which were survived, and a mortal reminder that death is the result of pain, whilst pain the result of knowledge.

For, with knowledge, a burden is placed. Not by god, though he is never reluctant to take credit, but by ourselves, upon ourselves and each other. Knowledge demands further investigation, a satisfying discovery leading to all sort of rewards. Whether the consequence be sorrow, confusion, injury or death, the inquisitive mind is unable to refrain from peeling back the flesh of their pursuit until the utmost bowels of the beast be lain bare for all to see.

This is your goal, yes? Knowledge? Perhaps for the sake of knowledge?

Or, are you alone,  nothing but whispers to call friends, seeking a revelation upon which to gain the motivation needed to get a job, ask out the pretty girl?

Or perhaps there is more.

Perhaps you possess a secret truth I have not procured.

Possibly you may tell me why I write the words.

The screaming whispers, the loud letters.

Perhaps you see my scars, and point to them with interest.

Mayhaps my ancient battles are a source of fascination which you intend to tear for information.

I would tell you that just as my scars form me, so do the words.

I do not write the words, and neither do you read them.

The words write us, read us, learn from us, it is our brilliance that allows this, we give life upon the inanimate, we breath fire into the braziers of knowledge, we are the blood and ink of the flesh and letters, damned the fools who cannot see this. Capable of atrocity, and capable of benevolence, we must be cognizant of our stupidity and open to our faults. We are not perfect, and that expectation  must be put to an end.

You need not impress me, you are human. Flawed, disgusting, beautiful and unique, as worthwhile and potent as the next. You are a member of the most resilient and capable known  species on this planet. Therefore, a responsibility befalls you and your kin to advance and enhance the world around you, to sustain such growth  so that it may be enjoyed and revised by those who come after.  This duty must be carried out, and failure to understand this dooms you to a life of cynicism and anarchy.

Dismissal of empathy isolates our spirit.  The events that follow tend to be violent and swift, just  as a sharp mind rends the ripe flesh of knowledge.

Your task is to leave this world better than you found it. Anyone worth listening to should charge you (and themselves) with this duty. It is not sacred, magical nor brimming of splendor; monotony and repetition will be constant threats. 

But you are capable, for you are here, right now, and that will be enough. You, are enough.

The words write us. 

Author's Note

I went a little everywhere with this. Too many ideas, not enough experience.