There is a kind of Thing you cannot speak about. “Cannot” not as in “not allowed”, but as in “not possible”. It’s risky to be writing this because if you talk erroneously about these Things they become even more elusive. See, I called them elusive just now and they’ve already gone a bit.
It is mostly hard to run from Words. As soon as you experience something, a sensation or feeling, they start sprouting in your head. Too Much Ginger? Salt? Sketch or Poetry? Fate or Chance? Desire or Curiosity?
It’s quite the opposite with these unspeakable Things.
In my experience, they can only take the denomination of “things”, and only barely. Tie them up more and they’ll slip through your fingers like air. Then again, it’s too much to even say that they “slip”. It’s too much to even say that they are. Because they are not, oh no. Not in the sense of being that we know, the being that is minded, shaped and pageable.
These things… They don’t mind it if you close your eyes and dance under their shadows, or if you rinse your face with the water of the river upon which they reflect their images. They might let you grope or fumble away around their homes when the lights are off. But that’s as close to pinning them down as I’ve managed.
Nevertheless, “happiness is only real when shared” and I’ve been desperately seeking a way to share the Things with Others. I’m pretty sure I know sharing is inherently incompatible with them but it’s hard to accept that whole bullshit of “it’s about the journey, not the destination” when it comes to communication of the Things. Maybe one day I’ll find a language.
In the meantime, I guess I’ll settle for a contour.