Words can only do so much, they can only capture so much of what goes on in our heads. An endless pool of thought is reduced to what can be captured in a few lines or curves, or conversely a series of sounds; contorted and sampled so that it can fit within the framework of our predetermined language. The process is so diluting that the meanings we spout are of a different medium than thought, an inferior impoverished one. It’s as though thought is an endless road flanked by moving wonders; what we express is the equivalent of black and white photographs of what we saw.
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