The thought’s structure eludes me.
It nags me, pokes and pricks me. where it hurts most: in the deepest recesses where I dwell. And the absence of the thought is all that I can write about. It is at the tip of my tongue, that idea, that thought: so to say – but it hasn’t found its form. Only form can be expression.
I spoke of many work-concepts today at a certain discussion. Then, a while later I spoke with a friend of more intricate human concepts.
Last trains are the bane of good conversations. I must say.
Form is, somehow, the prerequisite of any expression. I’ll admit, I have a bit of a hangover from my previous post. The artist. Not the one of the fine arts, but the artist of life.
Imagine an artist who can’t form a thought. In a 3′ x 4′ canvas. A dangling paintbrush, dipped in yellow ochre, questioning a starting point on the canvas. Where do I start, where do I stop? What do I fill, how, what do I leave empty?
Why is form so important? Just because it gives shape to thought?
Because it allows finite-ness. As normal humans, we are quite incapable of comprehending infinity. Other than as a word. As normal humans – we have to see the limit of all. It appeals to how our minds work. It is perhaps about control.
Deny it as much as you will; perhaps in the denial itself – you will see how you express your limitations.