Stillness

It has been an unusual week, yet for all the questions asked life continues and somehow speaks regardless of whether there are words or not for what is felt.

So it is with this moment in which the noisy question of what man is, and whether he actually exists as we believe him to, that life somehow becomes more apparent, and all the literature I have read folds like so many waves curling on towards the resistance of the shore. Language, it must be supposed, leads to a threshold and not to some explanation in all its fullness. It would be to simple to believe that words themselves were adequate to explain existence, and imbue it with a creative spark. And if the language and structure of our realities is so far defined that it acts to delimit rather than offer a way out of circular self-identification and sense of finitude... then perhaps to push past the language is necessary. To stretch out the language to its breaking point and also ask questions of the self which illuminate what resides within.

It is as T.S. Eliot says:

“I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.” 

It is always important to resume with language to keep in deep, meaningful contact with those that surround us and have only it as a means of expressing the small part of themselves that they can yet express. The unconscious will have to wait, yet it is of no small importance to recognise that the unthought, and the remainder that we must all share remains to be expressed. It is this full exploration of the self that leads inevitably to something new. It is late, though, and I will have to continue later.