Sometimes we don’t even know what it is we want to say–or hear… we don’t know precisely because it is the wordless thought itself that shifts in our minds waiting to be anchored down…
“An honest answer is a kiss to the lips,” the Proverb goes. I take it this is the reason that lovers, on declaring their love, are prompted to follow it up with a sweet seal. The brilliant truth of their unanimous “yes” spells kiss in a heavenly tongue. At any rate, there are moments when the choice-perfection of another’s words leaves us breathless–or awestruck–our hearts pounding from the beauty of it.
In the below paragraph–Faulkner expressed something for me I never knew I’d wanted to hear expressed. I nearly cried. Maybe it struck me so particularly because these last few weeks have dragged me over countless crossroads–I am struck by ever-churning time and the consequences of my own choices. But. Well. So it has been and always will be.
“It’s all now you see. Yesterday won’t be over until tomorrow and tomorrow began ten thousand years ago. For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it’s still not yet two o’clock on that July afternoon in 1863, the brigades are in position behind the rail fence, the guns are laid and ready in the woods and the furled flags are already loosened to break out and Pickett himself with his long oiled ringlets and his hat in one hand probably and his sword in the other looking up the hill waiting for Longstreet to give the word and it’s all in the balance, it hasn’t happened yet, it hasn’t even begun yet, it not only hasn’t begun yet but there is still time for it not to begin against that position and those circumstances which made more men than Garnett and Kemper and Armistead and Wilcox look grave yet it’s going to begin, we all know that, we have come too far with too much at stake and that moment doesn’t need even a fourteen-year-old boy to think This time. Maybe this time with all this much to lose than all this much to gain: Pennsylvania, Maryland, the world, the golden dome of Washington itself to crown with desperate and unbelievable victory the desperate gamble, the cast made two years ago; or to anyone who ever sailed a skiff under a quilt sail, the moment in 1492 when somebody thought This is it: the absolute edge of no return, to turn back now and make home or sail irrevocably on and either find land or plunge over the world’s roaring rim.”
― William Faulkner, Intruder in the Dust