4.08.2005

ah, coffee...

Hot, black and in my favorite blue mug. Curfew shall not ring tonight!
So, I'm blogging to the curiously sweet, yet sad strains of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto #2. The setting sun is painting the parlor of Stately Sad Old Goth Manor in hues of orange and violet, a fitting pallet for this particular labor of dear Johann S. At times, all is right with the world...
Maybe I'm in such a rare, gay mood because I read something on CNN today that, in spite of my constant fear that the world has become a singularly cold and cruel place, made me think that in the face of it all, there are some compassionate moments that make me step back and view my fellow man in a slightly brighter light. Perhaps, it's because I have a soft spot in my old black heart for ducks...
*insert long break here...*
Sorry, I was having a long on-line conversation with a friend. Now, where was I..?
Ah, I don't know. My muse is upon me this evening and while she hasn't been around of late, when she is, as now, she is a hard task mistress, indeed. And while the words don't flow like I want them to, she stirs my mind like the wind stirs the alder leaves in the winter - I am as they are and I almost quake in her will...
What would we say if we could put our real thoughts into comprehensible words? How do you describe what we really feel with these pitiful runes of ours? For all we are, we are truly incapable of describing our deepest thoughts, for words do not capture the feelings that feed our thinking being. How wonderful would it be, to be able to communicate with each other by thought alone? How deeply moving would it be to share how much you love someone with that person, with not words, but emotion unspoken. To be able to touch the mind of another and bare your soul to them, to share your feelings, not through any language, or any poem or prose we might muster, but by sharing the essence of what we feel, the stirring, the flush, the rushing of the mind when in their company. We are beings of thought, not beings of deed. We are governed by the limitations of our physical self and we have evolved into creatures that must act, however pitiful and shallow those acts may be compared to the depths of the mind that drives them. I cannot describe to you what is in my mind when I gaze at the night sky, nor can I speak the joyous feeling of a freshening breeze on my face on an autumn's afternoon. How do you emote the smell of a wood fire on a winter's eve, the satisfaction of a hearty meal, the sorrow of loss or just the plain joy of being? Words are for naught, and yet, they are all we have. And so, I sit here, fingers clacking away, working a tool to create shapes that cannot fulfill the will behind them. Misshapen lines on a page, forged and arranged, wrought of good intent and laid in front of you in hope that you might, even slightly, understand what I mean them to say, to you, through them. Perhaps it is all for the best. Words, like paint, like clay or stone, are only the medium in which we work. They are, at best, like the flag that flies like glory over a dark and mysterious keep, whose unknown treasures are guarded by a door with a lock for which we have yet to cast the perfect key. And so it is...
And so we are...
The hour grows late. The candles are failing and Darkness spreads her soft and comforting wings over my lair, to wrap me within, to shelter me from the fell deeds of daylight and of men... I bid thee safe journey through this night and I shall keep you all within my thoughts, until dreams doth take me.

pearls before swine...

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