When will the secret of words be realized?

Melting ice and cracking glaciers, a sentence is a force. Gravity, being only seven letters, sure holds a lot of weight. All is suchness such that it is called such. You see? A riddle can be the words of either a genius or a madman and none could ever guess the wiser.

The Writer is a ghost, the wind is a phantom; their existing only being in the things they manage to sway.

He realized how wrong being right meant. How he could not wrong a right, but he could sure write the wrongs. Surrounded by his mind, he was claustrophobic. Released onto the page, he was freedom song.

Drew, the word was given to him, to be him, like an assigned servant. Brought up from the dust, was he, and told to settle. Childhood never was anything real to him, just a memory now that he was twenty. Unsettled, he realized one day that everything was just a memory. Even the suchness of now.

Thinking with a pen in his mouth, perhaps he was fishing for the words to say on paper that he could never express using the crude organic structure of his throat. The world below him, the stars below his pen, took form in one word:


 That’s what he has always been. He realized many things in his youth, the first being that he only existed here.

And here.

Words made up his biology. He would have been less surprised to find out his entire universe was compressed in the random arrangement of those twenty-six figures, but the rest of his world told him of things real.

You are body, Drew.

You are mind, Drew.

You are spirit, Drew.

Choose for yourself what is real.

Choose for the rest of us who you are.


He realized his nature, in the mind of it all that is suchness such as all suchness can such be so. The more of such and such he had to describe it all as, the more confused he became.


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