Some Such BullShit

The bookcase sags in the middle, the weary shelves.  No further proof needed of the pathological need to babble.  Tongues are wagging like obsequious, obnoxiously ardent dogs.  Your father told you to think before you speak (these days you suspect that speaking is thinking, but that is another matter altogether).   The linguistics professor that "changed your life" is now silenced, relieved on the one hand to no longer burdened by the mystery while at the same time sad to be no longer involved in the work of solving it.

What is language?

There is quite a chasm between
"having something to say"


and



"wanting to speak".

But the ego does not see this, cannot see this, drunk on its cleverness.  There is a quick blurring of self and others in which influence is minimized.  One can be so easily persuaded by the girl or by the mirror.  "You flatter yourself"  To this you say, "Damn right I do"  You are so right when you make the observation.

"Every thought is original," I agree to this sediment because it makes it easier to lie to myself and to masquerade for others.  Before I read even one more word, I will write a trilogy that will reveal the sacred individuality of my rich mind…  In all the books, on all the sagging shelves, amidst the crowded stacks of some grand library, you will not uncover a single sentence that approximates a single insight in these gorgeous leather-bound tomes.  Or some such bullshit.  The ego's errors are painfully obvious.  One should never value one's self so much as to forget how speaker and message intersect...

...and then diverge into two very different directions.