What is writing if not an act of concealment? The artifex remaining silent as the word exits the mind and joins its exile away from home, from the lips where it had resided since the dawn of articulation. A world truly out of joint.
The written word is a betrayal of the ear in the service of the eye. Pushed to its extreme consequences, it ends up in silent reading, in introspective script, the greatest infamy of all.
Any act of writing is potentially self-alienating. There can be only one uttering voice, but narrative voice is a vox only in name.
Writing, not fire, is the stolen asset of the gods. Stolen with impunity. The offence has never been punished, the offender has never been found.
The sign crying out in the desert. Under a rock. In a cave. The orphaned tablet, the bloodied skin, the ignorant pulp.
We have yet to measure the extent of the sacrilege. The adoption of writing has always been a poisoned gift. He who lives by the word shall die by the word. And many are still dying in the name of the unuttered name.
The pervasive power of the letter devouring the voices in its path, swallowing the sounds in its wake.
Lives hanging in the balance. Hanging by a thread, the broken syntax of the great accuser, the writer. The maculated page, stolen youth, the adulterated beauty trapped in a phrase.
Imagine a world without words, a library of empty pages, blank screens and uncoined phrases.