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.