There’s an emptiness in the world that permeates every one of us. Never enough for some. Too much for many. The inability to completely understand much about anything, even the meaning of words that may describe it. Leaving us unable to fully comprehend what the hell this or any fool is talking about. The reciprocal impact of communication between you and someone else, or talking to yourself, and talking to others is like talking to yourself in another language. The importance of what he or they are trying to say is meaningless. I don’t get you. In the big picture it matters little if you’re a writer, a shoemaker, a tailor, or just someone else who likes to talk about everything and anything for the sake of hearing one’s own voice.
Putting your thoughts into context, telling stories that could be true or false. What does it mean to be speechless? The right words anyway. How can we measure the weight of words and hold them against the power they carry? Hear what you want to hear.
I’m sick of hearing the same old story year after year. Everything changes only to remain the same, that infinite repetition that starts yet again. A circular continuum of grunts and groans. A moan, a whimper, and a sigh. Disgusting buzzwords and one-liners, endlessly drone on like “unhinged,” “deranged,” “meltdown,” “panic attack,” and “living rent-free in your heads.” Memes of a twisted mind. They are us.
All you believe or seem to see and hear is the big noise of tiny sounds. Numb, blinded by ignorance, dumbed-down from a constant pain in the butt. No relief from the bombardment of flaky fakes flim-flams every day. An assault to the senses. Attack of the giant babblers. No way out of there. Sitting in life’s waiting room only to leave the party too soon. Next, please. Who’s next? No butting in line.
Shitting bricks in a glasshouse. No need for windows. Just the quiet comfort of home, living in a room with too many views. Throwing rocks at meaningful discourse. From the cradle to the coffin, dancing in our graves. Everything is coming up roses. Smelling like death warmed over on a cold marble slab. That’s what you get for all the trouble. Words pile up on each other. A deck of cards becomes a book of letters held together with syllables and phrases that describe how a situation can change in a blink. Stringing words together with paper clips and duct tape.
To lack understanding of what it says in the text, you must read it backwards and upside down. Held up to the light, next to a reverse mirror image, lines float like throwaway notes to yourself in the wind, always keeps the reader guessing. A cheat-sheet grocery list of things to keep track of. Scratch off another item on the list. If you expect something to happen, it certainly will. There aren’t enough words in the lexicon of language to fit in a dictionary of disappointments.
You know how to play the language game. Speak or forever hold your native tongue. For what it’s worth, we the people never had it to begin with. It’s a deal with the devil. The Nobel Prize-winning poet and exiled anti-Soviet philosopher Joseph Brodsky said: “By failing to read or listen to poets, society dooms itself to inferior modes of articulation, those of the politicians, the salesmen, or the charlatans. In other words, it forfeits its own evolutionary potential. For what distinguishes us from the rest of the animal kingdom is precisely the gift of speech. Poetry is not a form of entertainment and, in a certain sense, not even a form of art, but it is our anthropological genetic goal, our evolutionary linguistic beacon.”
I don’t know if those sentiments are genuine, but it sounds good. Looks good on paper too. You don’t need permission to be a dolt. To be an idiot offended by the rarity's life hands out like free donuts and coffee down at the mission. But you must listen to the sermon from the preacher if you want a bowl of thin broth. Eat your words with a side of humility. The stinky cheese of life’s greatest forgotten treasure. Call a cab. You’ll get there quicker.