You think they’re just words; the minute breaths you use and your idiosyncratic verbiage… But to me it may be a world- because it’s not just what you said. You don’t know the constellation of details why those few words could stop me in my tracks, freeze time, or send an intrinsic shiver up my spine.
What you don’t know.
You don’t know that what you just said- in its exact timing, measure, reference, and nature- it was whispered in the lowest darkest places. It was screamed from the shrouded peaks of the mountains, and wept into a vial centuries ago. It was scrawled in blood on the walls of this temple; long, long before you even knew my name- in a place you’ll never hear me speak about. Written before time: all contained in such a word so simple and inconsequential to you- with justice seemingly undone to what you meant.
I wish I could show you.
But words never did, could, nor shall they ever say what I saw in such a simple statement.
Why did you come when I didn’t call, so afraid. who sent you- what do you see when I say my words so elementary, veiled, and weak? What good could you see in them- in me?
Why would angels even send word for a soul so lost; tripping over my own countless prayers, echoing across the caverns of Sheol? Here, slowly degraded to only a sordid desperation by the hand of unforgiving time and broken allegiance; where life before hardly even remains in memory, or the person so changed by it all.
Can I believe that those words were really meant for me?
Do I have the audacity of courage to risk entertaining the notion that all my years of petition were even heard?
I do not hope for answers.
I scarcely even hope at all- in anything, anyone, any sign.
There are no such carnal saviors.
I’m not confident that there are even eternal ones.
Right now all there is are all these words, the ones you just said, and all of the things we don’t know about them yet.