A Waning Need for Words

It’s contradictory, in a way, I suppose, and definitely ironic. Contradictory because I talk about a lack of need for words right now in words. Ironic because a writer without words is a world where everything is muted gray.

It was recently pointed out to me that doing something well is essentially better than saying it well. I see truth in that. I can make a horror look tragically beautiful in words, but that doesn’t make it any less destructive.

Although of what I don’t know, since the things that really form the crux of it can’t be.

I’m being intentionally vague.
Not because I think I have some kind of secret.
But because I lack the ability or the innate talent or maybe just the desire to say it how it should be said.

There are grains of insight in the most flippant of comments, but the harder you squeeze to look for them the harder they are to grasp. Lesson learned, as it were.

Sometimes I remember too much. Not just remember, but look for memories on purpose. Flipping through the pages in my head. Scrolling through the pages on a screen. I often find myself rereading old emails, msn conversations, skype chats, facebook messages, letters sent and letters left unsent, both from the recent past and from years ago. I’m not doing it to be nostalgic; I’m doing it to learn, to glean more blood from those stones, to satisfy an insatiable need to know. And for what? Because not only is that task illusory, the desire is too. Knowing is a relative thing.

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If you're having a text message conversation with someone on a train it's polite to put the damn thing on vibrate so that the rest of us don't have to hear that stupid ringtone every five seconds at 8:30 in the morning. Is all I'm saying.

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If it's a joke then why is it true?
Because humour is often layered in truth.
Yes, yes it is.