The idea from the meaning?
She sits at a desk, headset on. [dah dit dit dit] They all asked why she would bother with such an outdated thing. Why not toy with the talking kind of radio? This was 30 year old technology. Sometimes, she thought, there is just character in the old stuff. Of course, they wouldn't understand. They weren't here to do the real work, anyway. They just stood guard.
She sat back and stopped transcribing. It was all the same anyway. [dit dit dah dit dit]
The roof of the tent was flapping about and the stripes seemed to bleed with the sunlight beyond. Why did they work during the day? Shouldn't they wait till nightfall?
At this time of morning, nobody was around the camp. They were all busy working. But only one of them was really interested in what they were seeking. She knew his eagerness and recklessness, but couldn't help but feel a shared sense of thrill. This was no ordinary challenge.
She looked over at the screen. From it hung a few hats and a robe.
"But you are not one of them..."
[dit dah dit dit] brought her back. Back to a troubled frame of a moment. What does one do when the meaning is taken out of the idea and the idea paraded before the eyes of men? Even if it is done as a curious, intellectual pursuit, it cannot be safe. What monstrous powers were being toyed with? What was this thunderbolt that they sought to grasp?
No, she knew it. But... the idea alone is so appealing, so why not take just the idea and leave the meaning behind?
[dah dah dah]
So many days sitting at the desk to translate old manuscripts. The relics found, examined, documented in such intricate detail. Such wondrous and beautiful things. Yet, were they all a vanity and a chasing under the sun?... [dah dah dit dah] What would you do?
Were the meaning put back into the idea, what would you do, then?
Would the proper response be to turn away in terror or to take up the shadows, now with form and spirit, to really complete a work.
Have you already forgotten and grown too cold?
In fearlessness will you go forward. Forward on Balaam's donkey into the sword of an angry angel? You cannot see it... Those things which tempt us. We think they make us holy. But don't you feel the rattling, the groaning deep in your chest when you don that breastplate?
This is now how it was meant to be.
So why am I still here?
I will remain until I learn whether or not one can live to glorify an idea.