Follow Me

Words — a peasant’s timepiece, Russian missiles, drunken darts. One might just as well squeal like a pig or join the dogs barking as express himself in words. They are downright unpunctual, too, prone to leave one just waiting around.

I wish we had more. More than words, certainly not more of. Maybe we do — paintings, I guess. Sculptures. Music. Perhaps it is talent that I lack.

What is a thought that cannot be said even to oneself? Not a thought, then. A feeling, vague intuition. Do I even know it without words? But how could I? “Know what?” I ask. That is my question. And if I don’t know it, then how do we relate, this nonthought and I? Experience, then. I experience a vague intuition that —

No, no. That cannot be right. The vague intuition is the experience, you see.

But I have the experience! Ah, I own it, then. It is mine, after all. But I own it like one own’s a cat, and one never truly owns a cat, does he?

At the very least, then, I am in possession of it. Yes? Agreed. I possess a vague intuition that —

Sure. Fine — a dog is barking, but I digress. I possess a vague intuition, then. What good is it?

“It is Gold,” one might say. “One must mine for it.” But “not all that glitters is gold,” as even the English master of pig squeals knew. In any case, is it possible to mine eternally for a piece of gold one sees glittering just right there in the dirt? Forever only one more spade away. — But let us not be dramatic, now. After all, dig we must.