Logolust

This is the deepest, darkest place I have been - ever. I have frequented this wood since the days of the youngest part of my childhood. When I wanted to avoid chores, this is where I hid; when no-one else was there for me, this is where I cried; and now, now that I love my work, now that my companions love me, I come here to think.

It's not the kind of thinking you'd expect, I suppose. I'm not into deep psychological mysteries, or unlocking the secrets of the universe through philosophy. I just like to sort things out and turn them into something I can manage. It's like refrigerator magnets - life fills me up with all these different words, and they don't make sense by themselves. Sometimes I'll be eating breakfast and a word will come to me. "Justice," I'll say. "Why, that's a fine word." And then, when I'm washing my hands: "Power."

That's what it's like, all day, every day. So that's why I come here. I like to take all those words and think about them until they mean something. Now, I don't mean "mean something" like how the Indian name for the creek means "lovely daughter" or how "neo" is the Latin word for "new." Those things are fine, but I don't want to just know what the words mean, I want to feel what they mean.

The problem is, most words don't mean much by themselves. I mean, who cares what Webster says about glaciers or monkeys or houses or shirtsleeves? I want to know how all those words fit together. I figure that that's the only way I'll ever understand how this world works. Still, it's not easy.

It helps sometimes if I write them down, so's I can remember. After all, if I feel a connection between those words, it'd be foolish to forget it. That's why I come here.

When I was young I loved the sunny glades and effervescent brooks, the beautiful flowers and the glorious trees, the happiest, most carefree parts of the forest: these were my home. I still love those places, but they aren't so good for thinking. At least, not for the kind of thinking I do.

That's why I go deeper now, deeper into the forest. I have abandoned the cheerful stream for the stagnant pond, and those wonderful flowers for moody ferns. I have done this because in apathy there is peace. The young trees of the forest are too full of vigor, too full of uncontrollable emotions to really appreciate life. When I am among the most sedate of the ancient oaks, there do I feel secure.

I don't know why I'm writing this all down, except that I know that these words are all flowing into my head at once, and I gotta' do something. It hurts, it hurts a lot when the words don't make sense. It's like thousands of needles, all pricking into your head at once. You've gotta' take a needle and thread it through the cloth: then, slowly, forgivingly, all the others will fall into line, weaving a most incredible, intricate tapestry of paper and ink. And paper and ink is just different words for flesh and bone. True, that's not what they mean, but that's what they feel like.

I would know, I think about these things.