Language is a jug of comprehension teetering upon the edge of a mortal precipice of perspective beneath the endlessly-battering rains of subjective experience - and any waterfall of words can only possess its true meaning when it exactly fills the idea that spilled it. Its kung fu is foreign and rare, and it thrives in the invisible light of seclusion.
We certainly grow heartily—as stubborn weeds—in the depthless chasms between reality and awareness, but we can never grow strong within them. Left to the darkness of ignorance, the already-dim grow only ever more lost.... and content. I often wonder if it is not worse for humanity to collectively make only a little sense from time to time than to never make any sense at all.
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