From out of our mouths is a creation that names the world. Born upon our life’s breath, words emerge from our lips with the same energy first manifested when the world was new. We speak, we make. So it is with these words of ours.
Words, born in love or hate, joy or pain. Words, shapers of both the creator and the created. Words, which expose our passions, our desires, our fears.
Such an unruly creation are our words. For they originate within the mysteries of the heart. What we wish they make so, for good or for ill. Words build up or they tear down.
Does the creator have the power to recall its creation? Can a single word be undone once given the breath of life? No, we can only wait like countless other creators have done before us. We wait to see what our words will bring forth. Held hostage by the works of our own creation, we truly are the most pitiful kind of god.
Words continue the work of creation, completing what was set forth long ago. And finally outdoing their creator, they succumb to the place where all words and all breaths must go. To the place already occupied by their creator of old.