Yes, I’ve spent countless evenings staring at a single syllable and a page of commentary. The whispered prayer acts like a focused pulse, a kind of micro‑therapeutic vibration that our nervous system can pick up, almost like a whispered password into the body’s own repair circuitry. Meanwhile, the scholar, in his quest for epistemic purity, will locate that same act in a vellum manuscript that survived the Great Fire of Edirne, citing the lineage of transmission, the scribe’s ink, the margin notes of a monk who feared the devil. One is a bedside story, the other a footnote trail; both are necessary, but the former speaks directly to the wound, while the latter keeps the wound from becoming a myth.

Exactly, the body holds that pulse in its own cellular memories, while the scholar turns it into a ledger entry—proof that the wound existed, that it was seen, that it mattered. One whispers, the other writes. Both keep the story alive, just in different registers.