A reading and reflection by Epic, of the Ancient Order of Message Makers
“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.”
Words wither, many much swifter than others.
The pendulum of time swings; it sweeps, brushing the present into the past’s repose. The present always goes; it never stays to become tomorrow. It can’t wait. Another present takes its place. Once swept into the past’s vast repository of days, the present becomes like all the rest: gone, parceled in the past.
Voice, Listen to a few ancient words from Solomon by way of Ecclesiastes: “There is no remembrance of men of old, and even those who are yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow.”
Words of wisdom, these words remembered, not lost and forgotten. For most words this is not the case. As time’s pendulum swings, the words of most men, and those of their kin, disappear without a whisper.
Epic nodded into the circle.
“Why? Why do the words disappear without a whisper?” Voice asked.
Do you not know, Voice? The mooring for words spoken is life. When death comes around, the words attached to life depart with the departed. What was spoken soon fades and falls away. Eventually the words are forgotten. They enter the vast repository of was. Their echoes are no more.
The present is history’s living patch, abiding between the future and the past. The present has paths to both but is owned by neither. The present daily reaches, stretching for the future, yet with each passing hour it surrenders and slips into the past. Each forward grasp is matched by what must be released. The past, with a force unstoppable, gobbles at the present, pulling in those words no longer to be heard.