a failed xerox of a Kandinsky piece
sometimes I like to call the predilection to endlessly talk and write and opine "the tyranny of language".
sometimes just sometimes I wish I were deaf and/or mute to blank out the ceaseless noisemaking or at least not be forced to contribute to it.
do we need to have an opinion on everything? do we need to know and make known our stream of consciousness voice that is likely not even in our control? do I even know in advance what I'm going to say in my next sentence, and if I can't control that, why is it worth the air, energy and electrons needed to move it around?
for every word in our known and lost languages, there are uncountable ineffable experiences that can never be captured in their wholeness, and any attempt to do so will only risk losing time to savour more of such moments before the void inevitably swallows us whole; lost in translation? bah, more often not even unwrapped and beheld by any one entity before a cheap xerox is sent off to the presses of posterity.
you will only find what you seek, hear what you are open to, remember what moved you, transmit what gives you an advantage; truth will remain merely a dogwhistle for utility because nothing is sacred…
to truly appreciate the sacred, one must, one simply must, revere the beauty of silence.