by Jonas Weaver
I cannot speak for myself. I use the words of authors, singers, poets, and characters on TV to speak for me. Too often the words I need are four letters long and carry the weight of years of argument. Because of the baggage these words bring with them, I must to go to those who can express more clearly.
I know I write like a pretentious fool, I’m aware that my writing borders on mediocrity and I know that that’s okay. I speak my truths how I need to speak them in the time I need to speak them. No one can take my truths from me. No one can take how I choose to convey a thought, an emotion. If I want to mess with the minds of those who hold dear certain anachronisms then I will. Words are toys, meant to be played with.
More than that, words are subject to change, abuse, pain, emotion, all the sensations and feelings we ascribe to them anthropomorphically are very real to each word. Words, since the Incarnation, have become physical beings. Words have existentia. They no longer possess a simple essentia. Words now exist in a way, which, maybe seen previously, they didn’t. Actually, let me amend this paragraph: words since time immemorial have had existentia. Words since the Incarnation have taken on a new particularity of being-in-world.
Words are toys. Words are weapons. Words are whatever the hell we want them to be when we need them. Words are malleable creatures, personalities and without any form then what is written on page by computer or hand. Words haunt and prescribe. Words enliven and free. And words, ultimately, are safety.
Incarnation makes for us a new command: go, be like the embodied Word, redefine the language of existence.