Dear younger me,
The things which I wish to say cannot be said,
In part because it has been said, (and often), before,
And we know this was as true the first as the second time I said it.
It cannot become any truer with time.
The bigger reason I cannot say what I want to say, is that I want to say something which seems to be a kind of music.
A world score of music.
It’s less a text and more a space of time profoundly charged by feeling, like the awe given to our small being among the enormous events of universal importance.
Universes and stars and suns, impact points, or gods, or some computer generated sims.
In any case, the whole of it.
Even for those, whose language is to say what cannot be said, the task requires a life of practice, contemplation, prayer. (The latter two don’t work without the first.)
Our life began in echo and extends into apprenticeship; a period which may be short, or long, but always ends…if it ends…with a view.
Even with the view, I must still learn the personal language that will convey that view to you.
And since my view, so similar, is also vastly different from yours, if only because I wish to speak it, I must also invent the language.
Life is like that.
Postcard: Acrylic painting