And so it begins.
I want to start writing again.
And not just writing about my day or what kind of ice cream I’m eating (though I’m sure sometimes I’ll write about that too). But about things that mean more than words, that aren’t just verbal dribble to take up yet another corner in cyberspace. I don’t expect them to be particularly profound or inspiring…I just hope for them to be human. Something true yet flawed, with infinite possibility and plenty of margins for mistakes.
“The complaint was the answer. To have heard myself making it was to be answered. Lightly men talk of saying what they mean. Often when he was teaching me to write in Greek the Fox would say, “Child, to say the very thing you really mean, the whole of it, nothing more or less or other than what you really mean; that’s the whole art and joy of words.” A glib saying. When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you’ll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?”