Our Last Weapon Dying

          A man, a great man, once said, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”  And yet today both the pen and the sword have been more or less eliminated; they have become museum pieces, lifeless decorations that get hung on walls or placed to collect dust upon an equally paralyzed, equally sterile desk.  The pen no longer threatens and the sword no longer awes.  Neither one bring entire nations to action or forces them to inaction; they are lifeless, useless and meaningless.  They have been replaced by screens and buttons, ones that are docile yet dangerous, ones that are silent and yet life-ending, ones that seem to move and blink and animate at your command but which you stare at and are not reflected back upon.  The sword is human, the pen is Man and both are being eliminated. 

            A man, a common man, once said to me, “What do we need to write for?  The computer has made writing unnecessary.”  And yet a person’s handwriting should be much like a fingerprint, uniquely recognizable.  And you need but write a single, a simple sentence to tell your own story, to paint a self-portrait.  Though we all learn how to write with rulers and stencils, over the years, as we grow and form and change, so does how we place those ink strokes on paper.  And yet, all these people, all these portraits, are being wiped away, effaced, crushed into the uniform of New Times Roman letters size 12.  Every page looks the same; there is no challenge, no secret code, no fingerprint.  What do we need to write for?  Because we are humans and  not machines; because in some way, by some miracle, we are each and every one of us unique and even though we share common traits, common forms, the subtle nuances make each of us a world, a new world to be discovered and conquered every day; because the size and color of our individual minds cannot fit into the ordinary limit of New Times Roman size 12; because we are Man; because we have fought to walk on two legs and use our fifth digit and to create and destroy and write – yes, to write! – be it with our own blood or a pen and ink. 

            Men have struggled, risked their lives, and even died to write down a single thought when others told then it was forbidden.  And now, when it is permitted without threat, without consequence, it is being choked, dying, being silently smothered by buttons and a lifeless screen.  In a time when freedom of expression is both condoned and left uncensored, it is being voluntarily both limited, chained, enslaved and is quietly dying.

            Oh, to breathe life into the dying and resurrect the dead… I have grown so weary of seeing that pale blue of lifeless screens glowing upon the faces of the living; leave the pale blue to those who have already breathed their last breath.