When the writer returns − a writer ready to play − the air starts to transform. A simple exchange of vibrations is felt, when the writer begins tuning and trying the instrument.
Minds of readers take note. They begin to fill with anticipation, and so with the first word connection occurs. It’s spontaneous. It’s breathtaking. It’s relationship. It’s exhilaration.
Music breaks through every word.
It’s a joy. It’s a wonder. It’s marvelous intellection, individualization. It’s introspection. It’s ideation. The input, the inquiry . . . the invitation to take a peek into imagination is delicious, delightful, enchanting, alluring. The dancing that happens inside the words reminds us that love can be sparked and stirred with a turn of phrase or a well-chosen word.
Who hasn’t fallen in love with a word? What sort of heart separates so completely?
Yet the writer is playing simplicity, crafting communication, displaying a message meaningful and packed with years of praying, talking, translating, and deep, deep thinking. The colors, the colors, the music you hear. The writer only put there as a gift as a favor, a flavor of gratitude that you might take the moment to hear, really hear what the words are saying.
It’s the prodigal writer and the prodigal audience. It’s a circle of music, a fugue on a flat white computer screen. Like a circle, the writer will always be back again.
It’s why God made writers and why he put music inside the words. It’s departure. It’s homecoming. It’s a violin. It’s a song of life. It’s a song of being.
It’s love in black and white, and colors never seen.