Evergreen is a blog on which I shall ponder and plod. This way and that. It has no actual purpose aside from what I, in the deep recesses of my mind, so choose to write on. It could be any of the following:
Birds.
Theology.
The meanings and lesser faculties of life.
Cheese.
Nature and its wonderment.
Storytelling.
More cheese, if I so desire (this is MY blog after all).
At any rate, my point is that whether it be a nice block of pepper jack, why the willow grows, or how Jesus Christ is acting in my life; I intend to document my life as best I can so that future generations, present and in-between, can enthuse about the writings of a new man in an old world.
“But why River? Why write? What draws you here? Now?” You might ask as you twiddle your thumbs, confused at the thought of a teen writing for mere enjoyment. What of videogames and pornography and messy rooms? What on earth is going on here?
“Well.” I would start, and plainly conclude, “Because I like it.”
And it’s true. I do, I love it. Starting up the strong machine of my frivolous words, I wipe tears from my eyes because words, as they stand, are far more potent than any other substance on earth. Oppenheimer created the dread of the nuclear fission by the simple words, ‘I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.’ Likewise, it is only by words that the physics and mathematical equation exist upon which he could found the very bomb he so sorrowfully created. And what of Jesus Christ? Did he not speak more than heal? Were words not the very hinges of his sacrifice and not what we have now to remember that precious story?
I would argue that words are more than the functions of a tongue used to the fullest extent. Words are magic and frightfully so. Words heal the hearts of harlots and condemn the cruel cockles of conniving crooks. We are made by word and dust, and dust is certainly nothing special. Why is it that God spoke light to existence? Indeed he could have waved an ethereal hand or snapped an omnipotent finger? He very well could have, but there is something in words, some magnificent mystery that no one can quite understand and that I love.
I love words. They mean promise, tears, joy, laughter, despair, hopelessness, and fear—so much more than ink or blotches on a screen. They are magic.
And so, with some somberness, I conclude my bout of writing this time, and until the next– read a book! Take a sip from the fountain of youth, which is writing.
There’s always more than meets the eye.