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Mine. Not Yours.
Put the point of the pen against the paper and draw shapes. Squiggly shapes, from left to right (not everyone does it this way). Lift your pen every now and then, creating a mini space between squiggles. That’s all that writing is. That’s all.
The entire rest of the world of it is the meaning we make of it.
“Four score and seven years ago…”
“To be or not to be…”
“In the beginning, there was light…”
“They took all the trees, put ’em in a tree museum…”
“Hey Jude…”
“Imagine there’s no countries…”
All just squiggles on paper that spelled out what we decided were words. We decided. It’s not like the Language God descended from on high, landing in the parking lot at Lowes, and said to us, “Behold, I give unto you: LANGUAGE, which shall be constructed of thoughts conveyed in an organized manner, paragraphs building on one another to support a point, an idea. Sentences making up the paragraphs. Words, the building blocks of sentences. Letters comprising words. Shapes comprising letters. Curves and straight lines and dots comprising the shapes.”
God didn’t give us language any more than God gave us the right to own land, or to own each…
