Where are the writers of old? The classics, who wrote the works clutched dirty and torn in the hands of bored students across the world. Their words, thoughts, philosophies and stories still exist, work is more stubborn than workers, living far beyond that first cracked pen, sharp-tipped feather swimming ink pools, the withered decomposed canvas, recorded, re-recorded, translated, resurrected even after the pen-holder is long gone. The physical vessel, its tools, never seen again, and yet not absent.

Warped, echoed classical voices shake halls, lift dust in quick breath over pulpits and podiums, profits pour in for their last of kin, what living people or entity inherits the rights over an old thinker’s mind. The initial instant of genesis is past, gone, ancient and over for the unimaginative, the scholars and academics delivering daily eulogies to one particular fleeting moment in time when a great antique was invented, storied, shared aloud and never ceased being taught as static and dead, unmoving, unchanging, a memorizable and easily summarized subject. A cynical rant. Impassioned speech. A sonnet. An apology. The gospel. Not living. Certainly not still evolving.

A bold mind goes directly to the source, the root stock, reading words and picturing the furled hand unfurling them, or the young tortured life seeking out truth, and value-increase inspired by the imminence of death. Basically, literature can be worshiped too, and never criticized, questioned, just shoved down a throat. Failed to be imitated.

Cherish the words of classical thinkers, the gospels surrounding young, inspired teachers. But before crossing the threshold into indoctrination, uncover their classic inspiration.

Revolution.

I began writing this in an attempt to explain how I view the relationship between God and existence.