My hands are sweating. I feel the pressure in my lungs. The pressure to waste my dear life by putting these letters in half-meaningful knots – symbols – which, so I am told, have meaning beyond themselves. My breath goes in and out – in her own separate and flirty way. I don’t follow her. I only wish I could. I would like to capture and to seduce her. Out of the blue and into the dark. She rises so mysteriously and so swiftly. She recedes into silence from whence she comes again and again. I am full of vigor and life when she is near. But when I catch and hold her, if only for a moment, I am out of breath instantly. I let her go in the hope that she will be back soon. Indeed, she returns shortly, only to disappear again. So many breaths wasted and so many more to come. Life is but a breath. Be wise and waste it. Allow it to run freely to no end, down the hill and through the valley.
My head is swelling with thoughts that I am afraid to mention. It would be nice if I had collected some pearls of wisdom, but rest assured, I have not. Truth to be told, I have this honorably childish and perfectly idle urge to express myself like a roaring volcano once in Pompeii. Shooting flames of fire I want to bury the world under the ash and pumice.
If I want to be understood, I am deliberately vague and ambiguous. I say the truth, only to conceal it. To avoid nonsense, to escape confusion,to elude misunderstandings and to hide contradictions, I twist the conventional meanings, I invert the common definitions, I use words out of context and I break the rules of logic, grammar and syntax. I am prejudiced and biased to the utmost end, and precisely this is the reason why I am also objective and just. I have the mindset of a scientist, because I know little but believe much. I am surprised when something ordinary happens and I am shocked to hear that things are as expected. Since I prefer silence to noise, I chatter and wobble all the time. I am polite, friendly and gracious, so I annoy and offend and I never say thanks. Because of my sadness, I smile quite often and laugh a lot. When I want to insult someone, I give compliments, express my admiration and love for them. I write love letters to declare my hate. I go on a date and meet people, only to be alone. I listen to others, only to hear myself. Since I love sex and sensual orgies so much , I am celibate and I live like a monk. I suffer, because I am so happy and cheerful. Because I eat too much, I am always hungry. I share my ignorance when I am called to share my wisdom. When I have no mask to cover my face with, I deceive by being authentic. I go to theater to immerse myself in life and watch sitcoms to connect with reality. I am genuine when I pretend. I steal and imitate, because I am creative, original and truly one of a kind. I hunt rabbits by running away from wolves and run like a wolf when I am hunted by rabbits. I believe in God, but I don’t believe in his existence. I am a child who has given birth to his parents. A criminal who has never committed a crime. A saint who has violated every law and principle. I run amok to remain sane. I engage in conversations because I have nothing to say. I write because I have nothing to share. To paraphrase Georg Lichtenberg: my writings are a picnic where the host provides the words and the guests the meaning.
I have always wondered what people are doing when they are saying that they are thinking. For that reason alone, I am not sure what Rene Descartes in all his philosophical vanity and reflective extravaganza was doing when he claimed to engage in this activity. But if I had to guess – he was writing. He shuffled words in new combinations and organized letters in random successions. After hours of these intensive sessions and hard labor in linguistic gymnastics, the freshly-spunned sentences – abundantly edited and censored – which he obviously found quite amusing and entertaining, were proclaimed as “his thoughts” and baptized as “his way of thinking”.
If language precedes thought, then the later is an epiphenomenon of the former and no thought can be conveyed or imagined before it has been either said or written. I cannot introspect my thoughts and observe my mind without writing or saying something. Because I have no thoughts to introspect and no mind to observe without a language with which to play and without the words with which to shuffle and juggle.
If thoughts exist at all, they are derivative and second-hand, having no meaning beyond that of language. The limits of language are the limits of thought. Thought arrives when language leaves. But since language never leaves, thought never enters. Thus, there are no thoughts and no thinkers. Only language, words and writers. If thinking has any meaning at all, it is that of writing. All thinkers are writers and all writers – thinkers. And being an accomplished commander of the word, having written nothing but this debris and rubble, I am the greatest of them all.