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I’ve been thinking alot about the relationship between language, reality, perception, and most especially divinity.

In many religious tomes, there is mention of the Word of God. God, the name; God, the word spoken into being from which life came forth.
Language has always been not only a tool, but actually somewhat of an aspect of the supreme being Judao-Christians call God. Words themselves holding power, incantation, spells, names versus true names versus birth names. What we call ourselves. What others call us.
The Word of God.

If someone were to ask me where I find grace, where I find sustenance and serenity and release, it is in words. Well, words and museums. This also makes me think of my dreams. I often dream of being suspended in water, of breathing underwater, submerged and comfortable in the cool weight. It doesn’t feel womblike, it feels…I can’t describe it. My old therapist said that water dreams are a sign of a connection to that higher power, called me an avatar, called me sacred.

I think on this not because I think I am a sacred, special being (ok maybe I do a little). But words…they are so important.
So important.
I think maybe there needs to be a massive SHIFT in religions. Worship not some patriarchal man in a gown in the sky thats telling you that you’re wrong. Find self in the sea, the vast limitless ocean of language, adrift on meaning and sound. I’m not talking faith or Jesus or whatever else a belief system requires of its practitioners. Just…words. Poetry. Songs. Tales. Not to invest in them as law, as written in stone, but to take them apart, find the truth that is woven amongst the flapping tongues of those that think they know best and them that was actually there.
In the old tales, we speak of fairy creatures, we speak of dawn and the shuttered gloaming that trails magic in the mists. We speak of Giants, whose hearts are hidden in duck eggs in boxes amongst gnarled tree roots. Of mothers, and the mothers of Monsters, and how the only difference between Grendel and Beowulf is Grendel’s mother is mourning.
There is power in the poignancy of connection. Power in that silken gold thread, woven into a million different fabrics, but still shines brightly no matter the pattern.

The Christians set themselves up.

There was a Word, and the Word delivered God.


About everlibertine

Romance specialist extraordinaire!

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