Gustave Flaubert, Madame BovaryLa parole humaine est comme un chaudron fêlé où nous battons des mélodies à faire danser les ours, quand on voudrait attendrir les étoiles.
I think I’m going crazy and I can’t even put it into words, cause words imply words imply words. I find myself stuck in a maze of signs and sentences that make up all these different meanings but never mean what I feel. They keep falling short of everything something anything at all.
Please tell me that you feel just the tiniest bit of this something I’m feeling. Just the tiniest bit to help me find a new perspective, a way to grasp these emotions as they’re tumbling down my spine. Tell me I’m fine, just fine – or maybe just not fine at all. At least I would know.
I want to show you my thoughts, guide you through my dreams. But I have to know if you can understand – or at least try to understand. No. How can I ask that of you? If I can’t even grasp myself, how could you ever be willing to embrace this tiniest bit that I’m offering you? But to hold me, that might just be enough.
I think I’m going crazy and I can’t even put it into notes, cause notes produce harmonies and my feelings don’t. They keep making up new connotations, fluttering in different directions – like caterpillars that have just broken out of their cocoons. I don’t want to catch them, but oh, to let them fly. To let them fly might just be the end of me.
Why is it that the human language is only able to make bears dance, while the stars remain intact? I want to touch them, stir them, breathe them, just like I want to feel what I am writing and write what I am feeling. But even if I could, even if I could dip the tip of my toe in this lake of perception, fly to this world of wisdom and take a little piece of enlightenment with me –
who would understand?