This language thing that people do… it intrigues me. Fashionable philosophy has been dissecting it for years, and still it’s our playground. We are vain birds, in love with our own voices, mockingbirds and jackdaws, finding all the surfaces to echo back our calls across the sky.
Names, words writing… not the same but interlinked. They have power. To name a thing is to control it, to speak a thing makes it true, to set a thing in writing makes it unalterable. Myths and words of power. Odin gave his eye for knowledge of the runes.
Words are the poles we use to vault the chasms between minds. That is its own magic. To speak, to say, and then to understand. A miracle.
And yet, words are empty symbols we push around paper, that we cast into the air, and we could fill any sound shape with the notions that we like, and so long as we are in agreement. But we are agreeable sorts.
Tonight? Some of them are simply cries to carry on the wind.