Stories: how powerful they are. Cutting through to the very soul, leaving a raw and bleeding path in their wake. Each line eliciting a new emotion, one that leaves the soul-bearer changed forever. No more can the reader be innocent of the pain, love, insights or laughs that a single story can reveal. Never again can the mind revert to its former self; forever changed, forever having entered a new awareness. One can live a pretend life, as if unchanged, but somewhere, some time, perhaps in the dark of night or a weak moment, again will the story be brought to the forefront of the mind. Inescapable, forever chained.
Why can stories hold such power? Simple words written on a paper. But the force they wield can shape and hold sway over life and death itself. Why? A single voice penetrating, piercing. Can mere words really be that affecting?
So many have tried to control the power of words. Some have caused unspeakable terrors, while others have shown love and encouragement, proclaiming the message they were given. Still others merely flounder in a sea of words, their attempts at greatness falling by the wayside, soon to be swept away to make room for the new current.
Stories. A force so powerful, only one could, has, can, and will have complete control over it. A force that bows to no one but its maker. Only one man can claim that ownership. A man called Messiah. Prince of Peace. King. Lord. Emmanuel. Jehovah. Yahweh. Savior. Redeemer. Christ. Son. Jesus. … God.
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