You are, in a sense allowing me inside
your head right now. It is quite likely I am using the voice of your
internal narrator for my own. Meaning these words, which I have
written, are forming in your mind with the very same voice with which
you form your own thoughts.
Though these are merely abstract
symbols on page that have no meaning but what you apply to them, they
can not only convey emotions, but evoke them.
You are an accident, a happenstance,
the product of only a random sequence of events. There are a billion
more like you, with lives filled with no meaning, you fight to live
but then you die, all that is you will one day very soon pass away.
You disappointed them, yes, you know
who I'm talking about. You may even remember their face at that time,
that time you profoundly let them down, didn't come through, weren't
enough to save them or fulfill them and that's why they left or died
or didn't show up. How could you do that? Why are you so weak? How
can you be so cruel? Why are you so broken?
You are a treasure, unique in all of
space and time, there has never been a one of you and no you will
follow. You are not your father or your mother, your brother or your
sister, or even your identical twin. You may have 97% of your DNA in
common with the stranger down the street, but were you to share 100%
your experiences and what you do with them have created and are
creating YOU.
You are fearfully and wonderfully made
and, even if you do not believe you were purposefully made, you are
still a masterpiece; for not only do you exist, but you know you
exist, know that you can effect your environment, affect those around
you, have dreams and pursue them, believe in a cause and make the
conscious decision to fight for it. You have self-awareness, can
develop an attitude of self-sacrifice, you have the potential to not
only give yourself in defense of your young (which many animals will
do) but also to chose to die defending a helpless stranger, to rob
death of the weak one nature seems to demand.
Did the previous paragraphs make you
feel anything? Make you doubt or smile or smirk? All of that was
communicated by squiggles on a page, typed in a messy room which may
be very far away from you. All of that was conveyed through a few
simple, written words.
Audible speeches inspire passion, can
rouse crowds into a riot. Writing can do the same, but I think it's a
slower build, more internalized and deliberate; perhaps more often
brings about a lasting change in thinking. I wonder if a part of why
this is so is because it is the aforementioned voice of your internal
dialogue which is filtering the thoughts you read. Through the filter
of this voice, those thoughts are at some level mistaken or taken as
your own thoughts or, if they are in stark contrast to what we
believe, to “hear” them uttered by that familiar internal voice
is revolting, for that sentiment surely is not a part of us. Maybe it
is for this reason that, sometimes, “the pen is mightier than the
sword” for it more directly speaks into your mind and touches
places a sword never could, that part which makes our self.
