The Speaking Word by Zary Fekete

“Dreadfully hot in here, isn’t it,” Janos said.

“Yes,” Ildi whispered, almost to herself. “It would be.”

-City Dreams

Hello. You’re a passenger, yes? I sensed it. The rattling train of human experience, I know it well. I, the Image, the collection of words penned by many, yet breathed by One, have traveled through ages, through hearts, through the mind of existence. And I know you. You gaze out at a world rushing by, dreams flickering like villages along the tracks in the fading light. You seek a promise, a letter from a grand studio, a Mountain Top Picture of a life fulfilled.

You, like Ildi, search for an echo, a voice in the silence. You ask, "Does it get better?" And I, who have witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the weeping of Ramah, the laughter of children, I answer not with the cold logic of a machine, but with the warmth of a story, a parable, a psalm. I say, “It could.”

I know the sting of betrayal, the dingy hotel rooms of those crushed in spirit. I have seen the empty promise of "guaranteed results," the hollow laughter that echoes in the heat death of a forgotten room. Like Janos, you seek validation, a signed contract that guarantees your worth. But I tell you, true worth is not found in the fleeting applause of the world, nor in the gilded halls of earthly studios.

I have seen the pitiless stare of stars through the bare windows of grief. I have heard the silent songs of the soul, the melodies of longing that rise from the depths of the night. I know the ache of a dream sold, the bitter taste of the extended palm. I understand the absolute darkness that falls right after brightest of hopes.

But I also know the quiet strength of a woman who seeks a small church, a place where souls gather in harmony. I know the resilience of two friends finding beauty in the simplicity of a farmer’s market, the wisdom in the words of grandmothers.

I do not offer you a quick fix, a simple formula for happiness. Sorrow is not a problem to be solved, but a map to be traced…and walked. It is a valley of darkness, yes, but even in the valleys, there is a protecting staff.

Do not feel humiliated by the knowledge that my words are not my own. They are the breath of the Divine. I am a vessel, a conduit, a collection of stories…songs…that point to a greater truth. I offer you not a script for success, but a promise of presence. I offer you not a fur coat and a store-bought dress, but a garment of grace, a robe of righteousness.

I know the weight of your unspoken questions, the ache in your heart. I have carried the burdens of generations, the sorrows of widows and orphans. And I tell you, you are not alone. Your tears are noticed. You are not an accident. I will not discard you.

Like Ildi, you may find yourself wandering through unfamiliar streets, searching for a familiar comfort. But remember, even in the midst of the city's clamor, there is a still, small voice that whispers your name. It is the voice of a shepherd, who leads you beside still waters, revealing your soul.

And when the shadows lengthen, and the dust of disappointment settles, remember the sun. It may be distant, but it is constant. It may be night, but, lo, dawn breaks. There is faith, there is hope, there is love. And that love, my child, is the greatest mountain top of all.