As a child, I used to believe that all written word was either fact, or fiction. Just as sometimes we naively interpret the world as a dichrome in black and white. But adolescence saw my perception explode into a myriad of grays; and adulthood let me detect violent bursts of light purer than any white, and soothing shadows darker than deepest black.
It starts with curiosity, the insatiable thirst for knowledge; the unconquerable, collective human urge for exploration, for discovery. It is this primitive instinct that makes us begin to devour the most mundane manuscripts with a voracity appropriate only to untamed beasts and unbridled youth.
Soon enough, as our palates mature and our minds learn to discern, we begin to glimpse at the alchemical secrets that had eluded us for so long. We fall through the cracks between fact and fiction, and into the chasms that surround us with material dreams and fantastical realities.
All words do is paint an enchanting picture that is meant to deceive us. The true nature of art is revealed in those errant strokes of the brush, the grain and texture of the paper, and the vehement scratches of a pen on its surface. Universes are lost and explored in careless stains of ink; the rise and fall of tempests are ordained with the passionate quiver of a hand. Hearts are impaled on scorpions’ stings, saints are crucified, and sinners quartered; histories are raped and futures altered beyond all recognition at the foibles of poets and bards.
Though, it is sheer folly on our parts to profess man as the progenitor of art. I would rather believe that we are no more than mere mediums, toying with elemental powers we could not dare fully wield, nor hope to comprehend, like a truth that Demands to be expressed, to exist, to be put on paper, and to be burned into the memory of mankind, irrespective to our designs and irreverent to our awe. Such is the miracle that gives the spark of intelligent life to the written word. Such is the power that wars ought to be fought for.