Words. God gave so much to the world before words. I think of the excitement in recording what has happened – the same that everyone has. Photographs, letters, journal entries (blogs for that matter), stories, movies, cd, recordings of voice, home videos, a child’s handprint in clay or dough, all those mementos, those tickets, pieces of thread, a feather – people’s ‘spooky boxes’.
Why does it mean so much to record our history? We all know whether we acknowledge it or not that we are going to die one day. Oh yes, it’s nice to think we can leave behind a little of our past for our grandchildren to wonder over, but those birthday cards, notes from friends, leaves, coins – what are they to any other? Why do we care so much?
Why if you were to grab something when your house was burning down would it be those things, memories in their pitifully concrete form. What are memories after we die? Or heaven forbid get Altzheimers *sarcasm*. We spend so much time recording our lives and for what end? It’s selfish in many ways, the way we hoard what’s precious to us. We could for instance go out and make a bit of difference in somone’s day. But then do we keep those things because someone made a difference in our day?
Words, a way to record, to communicate, to solidify history, to pass on what could be pointless or maybe even useful information. Does a cookbook hold higher honor than a novel? Where does feeding imaginations lie in comparision to what could be more practical? Can you write without a dream, without anything to impart?
Record the happenings, the present, the future even, and most definitely the past. To what end? A respite from the now? How people pour over photo albums – even those belonging to others.
Are we so caught up in the intricracies of our lives?
Or is that why it’s so important?
What would you grab if your house was burning down?
What’s in your ‘spooky box’?