(no subject)
In all my life, all the feelings, all the many different thoughts on any single subject: the most important one has come to me in a way I have not yet experienced.
For all the words, and as in all the many ways they can be placed; to describe, to make another feel, realize, or change, they were never as strong as I had first initialized them to be. An action is the pure beauty, it is the Inspiration, the muse for the very reason of one's want to share in an act of speech. Put next to it's origin of life, it looks as meaningless as one would ever be to realize, as to get mad at an excess of some thing.
For the lateness, virginity, of one language to another, moving further and further away from where you have started, you strike closer and closer to an origin or ancient decent. But never to the Inspiration. It had been lost in the process of speech.
Today, in a simple act, in a simple time, no words could reach me. I was lost to an action, any action it could have been, but placed into words it would have no meaning, no point, no matter in any situation as it was intended for.
Even now, after finishing with the act of trying to explain myself, a simple moment, the action has gone undescribed, diminishing further away from it's initialization, as being placed into a language.
Some had called me, once, a good writer. But what is it good for if there is no initial action, no muse. When the Inspiration had gone with the placing of the words. In one simple act.
For all the words, and as in all the many ways they can be placed; to describe, to make another feel, realize, or change, they were never as strong as I had first initialized them to be. An action is the pure beauty, it is the Inspiration, the muse for the very reason of one's want to share in an act of speech. Put next to it's origin of life, it looks as meaningless as one would ever be to realize, as to get mad at an excess of some thing.
For the lateness, virginity, of one language to another, moving further and further away from where you have started, you strike closer and closer to an origin or ancient decent. But never to the Inspiration. It had been lost in the process of speech.
Today, in a simple act, in a simple time, no words could reach me. I was lost to an action, any action it could have been, but placed into words it would have no meaning, no point, no matter in any situation as it was intended for.
Even now, after finishing with the act of trying to explain myself, a simple moment, the action has gone undescribed, diminishing further away from it's initialization, as being placed into a language.
Some had called me, once, a good writer. But what is it good for if there is no initial action, no muse. When the Inspiration had gone with the placing of the words. In one simple act.