My brain is dead. I had a slight fever last night, and I’ve been dead all day.
I tried rhyming:
I contemplate Hell, and those who therein dwell.
But I’m too tired to sit and wrestle a poem out of that. I did write an essay yesterday, but I’m not sure it isn’t the ravings of my fevered brain:
Language, a powerful thing, directs and refines thought. Without language, our minds may shine with all the brilliance of the sun, they may illumine many things, but like the sun, the dawn of the unfocused light rises to go down again unto dusk. Language, I say, is like Edison’s light, an admitted imitation of something far grander, but it is still the grandest means of battling the night. More so, let me suggest that, since we often depict our thoughts and ideas not as the sun but rather as a lightbulb switching on above our heads, let us say then that language is better thought of as a laser, or better yet, a lightsaber, for language cuts.
Anyway, I don’t have enough energy to really criticize my own work right now, and I probably won’t publish it until the weekend.
I tweeted a tweet: Someone asked for a definition of freedom, and I said, “When I do good, it is my good, when I do bad, it is my bad, and the consequences of my actions are mine.” I hesitated to send that, because something about it seemed imperfect. I think it’s true, in a way, but not the whole. I might better have said that freedom is the choice of whom you will serve.
Anyway, this fevered rambling has gone on long enough. Hope I get better soon.
Tale Told 