I am a priest, laboring over a papyrus. Mine are the sacred symbols. With them, I extol the victories of our glorious ruler and invoke the protection of the gods. My symbols may be carved in stone, but their message is aimed at the stars.
I am a young nobleman, scribe to the king. I kneel over a wet clay tablet and cut wedged dents in the clay with my stylus. It is my honor and my duty to keep the sacred records. My work is hard, but my status assures me some preference so life has its comforts.
I am a brother of the order, cold and hungry. My days are spent hunched over scrolls of vellum. For three years now, I have been allowed to copy the sacred texts. I work diligently, awed with the glory of the message I echo.
His words fill my soul
——Characters bloom on the page
My paintbrush dances
I ply my trade in the marketplace. For a few coins, I will trade you a few moments of my literacy. Whatever written record or permanent documentation you may need in life, I can provide it. I honor the oath of the scribes: offer no guidance, take no sides, and accept no bribes.
My tweezers dart over the type case, plucking letter after letter. I pad the lines, lock the form and pound the surface with my inked paddles. I roll a proof onto newsprint and finally see the words, not the pieces. A massive composite block of wood and metal bits, screws and clamps—a block that I built and will later take apart—has been transformed into a page filled with meaning, a page which will speak to all and might last for a long, long time. It’s a kind of magic.
I stroke the keys and listen to the jingle of the matrices as they drop. My machine performs its mechanical dance, dropping letter after letter, building line after line of type. The elevators rise and fall to the brass melody of the magazine. The news of today’s world slides through my fingers on its way to wrapping tomorrow’s fish.
I sit in my comfortable living room, dressed in correspondingly comfy clothes. My fingers perform a rapid staccato on my laptop keyboard, documenting only my pointless stream of consciousness. Soon I will push a button, causing these words to transmit wirelessly and immediately from my lap to the internet, then directly to the eyes of anyone in the world who cares to read them. All without benefit of pen or paper. And who knows? It might last forever.
I am often awed by the undercurrent of my life. My entire existence has been created, nourished, sustained and edified by the spreading of the word. I am not the message. I am not the messenger. I am the medium.
I bring you the Word.