Language is an attempt to sculpt the human landscape to our design.
I watched myself this morning facing an intractable human problem; its futility had silenced me.
I, who love to talk, found no words. More cogently, I sought no words.
Why describe when I cannot convince? Why define when I cannot find adherence? Why communicate when confirmation is impossible?
If change is impossible, solution is an illusion. If stasis is inevitable, why expend any life force? Save it for the primary contest: maintaining heartbeat.
I understood why old men age increasingly silent. They have given up on the world; or at least their ability to maneuver it. They know that politics is infinitely elastic and corruptible. Individuals are hopelessly mired in genetic predisposition, and love has gone the way of all soft flesh. Only stubbornness remains. Silence maintains, conserves, focuses energy on defeating the ultimate foe (whom, history has proven, is impervious to argument): death.
But I write?! I expend words, energy, in that way. Am I engaging in self-delusion? Death does not read my blog. Who am I talking to? Myself, obviously. I am my last listener; believing I can change my own human landscape. My last will and testament has yet to be recorded. Even if written on the wind--or an electronic cloud--it is still forming, like the universe itself.
Death shrinks back in the face of self-argument. Talk to self. Others: please remain silent.