Yes, that is where a life without words can take us.
I don’t know how important words really are. These labels that imprison us in the still-lifes that capture the table, empty it of its essence. It becomes mere wood, incapable of being more or less wooden. It woodifies. Yes, words imprison, labels confine, identity traps. An image breaks and cuts you to pieces and the jagged edges splinter you out. Like water they drip down the drain. The broken image was never but a vessel to entrap you anyway. Words imprison, labels confine, identity traps. Or should it be words confine, labels imprison, identity traps? Who really cares? The words are labels and identities denying the essence. We are so damn imperfect, aren’t we? A word label? A word is a label. An identity is a label. An identity is an image of the self. And yet I write, I write, I write. Do these words confine, imprison? Not until the between. If they are uttered in the stillness of the dark night in the middle of the deep forest, what impact do they have? When a pine needle falls from a branch it makes no sound, but creates the softest of beds on the forest floor. There has been then. It has been. It has joined the millions of others in its silent falling. The world indifferent, it has made a bed with the others. Do words confine? Does identity entrap? Do labels imprison? Ah… Do questions drown us in waves of non-answers, ignorance poured down our throats to drown out the empty questions. Yes, we can drown from unanswered questions. Ignorance poured down our throats.