“But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought, produces that which make thousands, perhaps millions, think.” Lord Byron

The world as we know it could not exist if it were not for those first writers who began to chronicle events, creating pictures with words to tell of their experiences, observations, inventions and advancements. Our earliest histories have been preserved because a writer was born to write of them. Legends became legends with the stroke of a writer’s hand. Folklore and fantasy live and thrive between the pages of books written by the keepers of words.

The wisdom’s contained within the Bible, penned on ancient scrolls are treasured; the lessons our Lord taught when he walked the earth have stood the test of time, and to this day are cherished and serve the purpose they were meant to serve. What if they had only been heard and never chronicled? They will remain forever for they were written.

Old pieces of parchment, rich with the ink of our forefathers still remain to serve the country they helped create. We can look upon the Constitution, each word a piece of art; the words themselves are as beautiful as the message they hold. Great care was taken in the writings of those who helped shape our country. They left a small part of themselves in everything they penned; imagine the time taken and the care given to each stroke of the quill. Knowledge gained becomes knowledge lost if not preserved.

In days long past writing was an art, cherished and mastered. Before telegraphs and telephones, e-mails and text messaging, people poured their souls onto page after page. Their letters had meaning and purpose and those that have survived the years are cherished. Letters of love and loss, letters of hope, good news and bad news . . . all penned to a page. Moments in time captured forever.

Men wrote of their love, leaving their brides something to hold and cherish in their absence. Mother’s left mementoes of great worth to be passed down in the form of words etched onto notes and letters, their thoughts and wisdom remain long after they part from this world. With each cherished scrap they once held within their own hands, a small part of them lives on.

I believe every word I write is a beat of my heart. As long as they are read, I will, in some way, live on. My life’s ink is soaked into the pages I leave behind. In my words I shall always be.

The power of the written word cannot be measured. The words have yet to be found to describe its value . . .

Crystal R. Cook