Prose Poem of Gratitude to Lord Thoth

This text is a personal dedication meant to honor Lord Hermes. I write prose here and there, and this will be my first time sharing something like this on our Forums.

I hope it's at least an interesting read.

"

I knew little, I was young, and I was small, and I had nothing of my own. I was in a large room, silver-grey walls were the furthest I could see.

Bookshelves aplenty, and a dark blue rectangle caught my attention.

And I opened a book.

It spoke to me, and I knew more. It let me taste the things of life, and I grew older. It filled me with emotion, and I grew larger.

The wide world outside my walls was dangerous, and yet, book in hand, I was boundless, seeing worlds that eyes alone cannot.

I closed the book, eyes weary, and all these stayed with me. I had something of my own.

I hadn't known that I was thirsty, yet written word gave me to drink. The finest drink I had, drops of dew right before sunrise, under the crescent Moon.

I was home.

As the beak of a quill hits paper, I see flowing water. It flows from a vast river. From the river, someone can take water, letting it flow into a vase, pouring from the vase into a cup, and pour the cup onto the dirt of a potted plant, so it may grow.

I then learned to write, and now still learn to write, and I will yet learn to write forevermore.

In the act of writing, I see there is Eternity.

We have language to express within.

We have words, to put masks on Mysteries, that they may speak to us and that their shining faces don't blind us.

Words carry structure, logic, order, mathematical complexity.

Words carry also harmony, magnetism, song and dance.

Words carry, above all, limit and boundary. They carry walls. Some of what is poured onto them spills.

What one has within, is always greater than what they put on paper. With this, words carry sanity, reminding that the greater, true Book lies outside ourselves.

And yet, we write, intending to capture the greater Book in our smaller ones. With this, words carry a yearning, to imitate and walk in the footsteps of what is greater.

What a writing Truly is, does not require paper, or ink, or word, or language, or hands to write, or eyes to read. These are shadows on a cave wall.

We all are authors writing.

We all are quills with which something else writes.

We all are ink, with which anything can be written.

We all are pages, being written into.

We all are languages,

We all are books others read.

We all are each a word, and carry each a word, its truest meaning known only to the Word.

This beautiful notion and Mystery of written Word, I did not create, and I do not see its ends as far as I can wander.

If I love it enough, I am unsure. If I know it enough, I am unsure. If I wield it well enough, I am unsure. Of one thing I am sure, however:

It feels right to call it Thoth.

Great Thoth, to me you are the Word of Words. You are my Eternity.

Your presence is a pleasing warmth I can't fully describe.

In it I feel the love of a parent, I feel gratitude that I get to witness it, I feel love for life.

In it I feel something that grows me, that allows me to discover myself, and that allows me true freedom.

In it, most of all, I feel a source, which I never fully left, as it left with me.

I am home.

"

Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this, and I thank the Temple and everyone who works to maintain its great spiritual knowledge.

Hail Thoth!