We are frustrated. Our hearts churn with emotion and our heads buzz with activity. Thoughts link arm in arm with one another and armies of symbols and connections are born and die in seconds. The waters of the soul rise high and shake the foundations of the mind; they crash and recede back into depths of our spirit, taking forests of reason back into oily waters, and depositing thick black soil; messy and fertile.
We are infinite--It is unknowable, yet, somehow, I know we must be.
What a pity. You can never know--I can never know--the depths of these turbulent planets inside of us. We must use such meager and frustrating tools: a writhing muscle in our mouths, fingers, strings, paints, clay, paper, ink,words. They cannot show.
We must use them, these rough tools, these inadequate devices. We push ourselves--to communication; to understanding; to fluency.`
"I, too, have something to say!" and language itself is not enough to show...but pushing ourselves--in itself--reveals some of the depth. You've captured tidal waves of this frustration well.
ReplyDeleteWelcome to Sunday Scribblings where we all try--with fingers, pictures, sounds!
Didn't Samuel Beckett chose to write in French because he found English inadequate, not precise enough for him?
ReplyDeletethis left me speechless!
ReplyDeleteAn interesting thought, the struggle to express beauty in terms of speaking some unfathomable language inadequately. Well written!
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