I posted a question on Facebook a few weeks ago noting how I had unintentionally eavesdropped into conversations during a trip to Target one day. I had passed by no fewer than ten individual conversations, one of which involved a woman speaking to another regarding something relating to grooming or cleanliness. I do not immediately recall this one, but the ten individual conversations I had run across made me ponder something. Words, both spoken and written, are just here; hundreds of years from now, these individual conversations will have never crept out into the world to be heard. The gift of communication is basically wasted on complaining about what others have said, and those words will not echo forever. Those conversations will have been forgotten by time, both by the speaker and the listener.
Writing is far different. It’s the physical embodiment of speech. Yet, when someone tears up a note they’ve written, or burn their Morning Pages, they’re destroying a permanent record of their existence.
How interesting is it that literacy has separated the great men from the common peasant, and it is only those great men will be the only ones to be remembered throughout history. The rest are lost to time, a ghost in history books except by mention of mass casualty from a world war. How depressing it must be to live and die in the blink of an eye, while the world continues its cyclic path of days, weeks, months and years without even a hitch of sadness.