Words are symbols of other things. This word tree lacks real bark. Fundamentalists, dogmatists, literalists, densely misperceive a direct relation, an inviolable link, between some sole mental concept, inspired by a word, and an actual thing. There is no literal truth. A will never equal C, much less be. Words are lies. Bards sing fair of far fay glens, and clerics growl fear with resolute cant. Though workers steer clear when making the grade, words are still symbols of far different things. For what is to me, is different for thee. If you did not claim otherwise, I’d not be so blunt, but truth is a noun and words are still lies. Sure, our tongue may be common. Noisy comms seem intact. And always we parallax to abstraction when peering point blank. For palpable particulars lay quantumly linked, well past terms. Words are lies. The magician would have you know incantations invoke Logos. And sometimes it works, though, of course, best, wed with science. Words so employed might demonstrate power, as those of bards or the state, by clan and from foe. But before conflating a process with fabulized ends, it’s wise to recall, every combination of symbols -- calculating, controlling, mystifying, inspiring -- fails to capture the simplest apprehension of nature’s light play in the woods. Words fall flat, short, lay trapped in small chambers, where they’re picked up by opportunists for backstabbing gain. Words delight and deceive, spark love, holocaust. With weak exegesis we forget, feign certainty, lost. Words echo in canyons, ring tinny and die, far from the roots of the tree they described. Words are lies.
Farnilf P. is a member of a pseudonymous arts collective dedicated to world domination. An ephemeral art book of this work is forthcoming from PiNPRESS.online.