What good are words? I try and try, but each time they fall flat. They capture in two dimensions the universes in my mind’s eye.
Can I capture the naunces and facets of human nature in ink? Can each deathly silent, pitch black cave, be communicated in words and light? Can the soaring heart be grounded to earth? What of all the times when tears or laughter, even both, come out simply because no words can begin to speak the depth of emotion? What of the meaningful silence that rests between us, when words cannot improve the void?
What of the nameless, untamable, indistinguishable yet intensely real feeling…you know of what I speak. That longing, as if melancholy and ecstasy and tranquility and rage all fused into one enormous, tiny, bright, unfathomably dark, amalgamate of something-nothing so real and unreal that you can barely let your thoughts rest on it without wondering if it truly exists.
In such moments, all that remains is to release your ceaseless discourse to the wind, to lose yourself, to rest in consciousness. Sink in the mire and ascend to the stars. Let the silence teach you. Enlightenment feels like death, and truly it is, but no more or less than it is life.
When the river of words runs dry, neither fear nor strive. May your mind be the tranquil surface of deep waters. May the still quiet be your comfort.