Happiness isn’t always cheerful.

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There is the pretence that the purpose of language is to communicate when so often we use words only to protect ourselves or attack others. Yet we cannot or will not admit to this. Behind all of our honesty is a deeper dishonesty which is inevitable and cannot be named.

I find lately that the least little ambiguity between myself and others is so heavy with failure. Failure to do the right or good thing. Is it even possible to be clear? What could clarity mean other than an attempt to signify mysterious sadness or elucidate the pathos of things.

Communication cannot save us from ourselves. Attempts to communicate are just the fragile, awkward gestures we hide behind time and time again. And yet without these fragile gestures what would be left of us? Only apathy and self-interest? Desire, of course always desire, but desire without communication is only impotence or war. (I am forgetting about joy.)

Attempts to communicate signify, however ineffectively, that we still care. Tenderness and failure. We must go on.


 
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