Unintentionally Unnecessary Identity

i know about me

and the things i do but i

dont know who i am

Memory

How can I dream? And if I dream, who gets to say that I'll remember it? I wish that music were enough to let me feel everything again, to let me refresh myself with with things dead, but it can't. No combination of wordly goods can piece together the puzzle of the past. Can reach down with slender milky fingers and manipulate the emotions, and the laughter, and the nonchalance of the things I've already done, pulling them out to look at each glowing piece, and always making sure to put it back in just the right spot. Within that enigmatic drawer, skewed half-open at the back of my mind.

I found myself standing, alive and seeing, in the vastness. It was grey, yet everything could still be seen easily. I squinted into the fog and the twilight, and my eyes picked out the dresser that always appeared in my dreams. No matter what events happened in my fantasies, the dresser never opened. It seemed locked, from the inside certainly. 

Coming closer, I felt the edges of the place stretch out beside me. Straining to make forward motion, everything else around me lengthened and distorted, to the effect that I began running, panting, breathing eagerly, and the dresser with it's laminated, mysterious innards remained just as distant.

The light above me, a little to the left, brightened. I shut my eyes tight, whispered an assurance to nobody, and breathily looked around once more. And I was at the dresser. Its surface seemed to shimmer in the fog.

Not in a state of lucidity to think about the repercussions, I knelt and clasped the flowing handle of the second drawer from the bottom. Mildly surprised, I noted that the wood seemed uniquely formed to bear my fingers. The carpentry relented benevolently, and the drawer creaked forward, sending an echo out into the mist, reflecting off boundaries that weren't there.

I glanced down. The drawer was full of puzzle pieces. Some were worn and dull, others glistened with colour, some even seemed to glow. At first glance I already began to identify pieces that might fit together. But there were so, so many. 

Sitting down, I poured the pieces out onto the ground. I took a few long, thoughtful breaths. And began to put the pieces back together.

Acacia

Those days. When you look out your window, trying to find an emotion that you only recognize through its breathy sigh, leading you by that same murmuring feeling to see differently. 

Grass, churning, organic swaths of it. In beautiful hues, competing with the sun to see which is most complementary to the scenery. But more importantly, the acacia tree. Umbrella shaped, idyllic, grown carefully on its own to uniquely suit only those mammals who proudly boast uniquely appropriate long necks. Imagine, a living organism, complete in its purpose, crafted to serve. Not to survive. But to infuse, and blend into the form of its allotted division of time. 

How can we see beauty? What are my senses actually telling me? I hear the tree whisper to me. But it's not a whisper, because that would make me feel welcomed, and attracted. A whisper would be too certain. But it greets me, and lets me in. I can be a part of a different view for a while. Forced to ignore the motives inside the window, I willingly engage outside of it instead.

I've left the things behind the window. Not because they're inherently limiting, but rather because they're neutral. And the opportunity to sit by the tree is... pleasant. Assuredly measurable, and guaranteed to end, I nonetheless know that this is the better option. Maybe I'll pass by this way again. I want to engage, and admire, and stretch out to compete with my heroes for an allocation of meaning, a resource that is unfairly limited by both birth and death. 

It's really hard to make out what I should communicate. I'm accepted, but I don't know if that will continue. Should I make an effort to return to the tree? I know the mystery would fade if I were to engage a second time. I don't want to ruin the mystery of a tree without detail, or a woman without a context. But I can smile, knowing this tree is in my future. I will know. Inside the window again, I will go about life, and sooner or later, a whisper of emotion will let me know whether or not the tree remains satisfied as part of the glorious background, or whether I might be allowed to again diversify the scenery.  

To the Writing on my Wall

Goodbye,

You were amusing for a while.

For about a week.

But I gotta erase my immaturity because I don't want to grow up.

It'll still say you anyway.

In a nice blue.

That wasn't planned, believe me.

But I still need to finish this, so I guess it's ok.

And I tell you this lying down, and my writing's going.

We'll see.

You were never important, and it took too long to get rid of you.

Sincerely,

Joshua

Awaiting

The hall wasn't really that big. Compared to the hangers of the great fragrance barges, or the vast distance covered by the glossy Eastern Sea, the hall was hardly worth any notice. But the barges and the Eastern Sea didn't watch you. 

Lisa pondered the six different walls, untraditionally angled in asymmetric positions by a contractor who was clearly precise, but oblivious to the desired cliches of hospitality. The room certainly had six walls, but they broke off at inconsistent angles and never seemed to agree on which length they should extend to. Lisa thought about this, just as one being told a very dramatic tale of intercultural politics thinks about such news; this is all very interesting and I am entirely capable of dissecting such information further, but I am utterly apathetic when it comes to such a prospect.

She wanted to admire herself. It was an accomplishment all on its own that she had made the journey here with minimal trauma and moral redirection along the way, and she felt that it would do her some good to reflect on how much she still appreciated herself. She wanted to stand and flourish, to wave her arms and present herself to the foreign floor tiles, which would undoubtably applaud her conformity and congratulate her on who she was. But the walls seemed like they were watching. 

It was all very silly, but Lisa refrained from any sort of display. Though she knew, logically, that she must be alone in this big, angular home, she could not bring herself to mentally break into the part of her impulsivity that would allow her to prance and sway and make up catchy songs no one had ever heard before.

How massively inconvenient that the universe did not allocate certain times and places to be designated free ranges for creativity. Why couldn't someone tell Lisa when it was that she was allowed to be optimistic and goofy? Then she could plan her life around these instances and not feel inaccurate and confused when they didn't proceed like they were expected to. 

She knew she wasn't going to cry. Whether this was because nothing had sunk in yet or because she was actually as full of indifference as she felt, Lisa couldn't tell. The conjoined band of brass and bull leather on her wrist reminded her that times and places existed where the walls didn't watch you, and where resentment and complacency weren't the only possible resolutions to an argument.

She hoped her family would find her. Deliberately positioning herself to face away from hope, she couldn't help but hope anyway.

The Feast

The fire is what catches your eye. Its roaring, aggressive girth dwarfs anything inside or outside the hall. During the blustery winter months, men only dream of having a blaze that provides the same sense of assurance and safety. It took hours to fuel, and now spits and fumes determinedly,contented in its maturity.

The eve has been glorious. Song broke out even before the spindly trees had swallowed up the falling sun, and I remain unaware of how long we've hunkered around this great fire, yelling, chanting, and consuming.

I can see the storyteller is still enjoying himself. It matters not one way or the other whether he stays that way. I'm sure the crowd will listen to his story as long as he tells it, and not hesitate to beat a better story out of him if the current one should become lacking. In his fortunate case, the threat of death is out of the question. The Chief might not be able to take the stress of having to find another replacement storyman.

Chief is older. Still competent, though. Still enthusiastically stabbing and ripping through the deer meat with his fantastic dagger. I doubt any of us will ever learn how he came by that particular utensil. Capable braggart as he is, the Chief somehow forgot to ever reveal the origins of the ancient, jewelled knife that spends most of its time strapped conveniently to his thigh.

I'm not that drunk. Yet. As far as I can tell, thinking is still as effortless as I like it. After all, the longer one stays sober, the more enjoyment one can glean from the tussling of the warriors lacking similar restraint. Hmm, it seems that the grimy Easterner is engaged. Forget the bards, there's no better accompaniment to such things than the voracious brutes that surround them and cheer them on.

Ahh, good hit.

Sophie's Ode

Alas, poor cat!
Your life was grand!
You would have made a wonderful hat
I like sand

When thence you shuffled off thine mortal coil
My lifelong dreams of friendship were foiled
One tends to plant daisies in the soil
And robots work better when fuelled by oil

Ahem! *tear*

Fabulous feline, awash with poise
Your farts make far too much noise
You look like an idiot when you play with your toys
Constantly pursuing them hot feline boys
Oh, joys!

How now shall I function, deprived of my pet?
Bottomless, teary waves my glands do beget
And so I write this poem so I will not forget
That most glorious of eves on which we first met

*more tears*

I recall those days when you and your bro
Would frolic and leap and play in the snow
Forever I'll be jealous of yo' crazy sweet flow
Your litterbox will stay dirty foreva mo

Fin

-----

A silly poem written on a Thursday afternoon
Coauthored by Marsha Marzouca

Denouement

What are they? Where did they come from? I do not like crimson. It clashes with the terrible orange of the bleak, malignant sands that stretch as far one might care to look. They're not supposed to be here. They don't fit? Where did they come from?

So many questions. Focus deserted me weeks ago. I'm not getting any answers. Why won't they respond? Why?! I can't resist but to spew questions and inquiry. I sleep, I breathe, I cringe at my disparate inadequacy but the questions keep, keep coming. Bouncing off the ignorant, stupid monoliths like the elements.

I hate red. My blood is red. And smooth. Or brown. Dried, scattered on the dust, sucked through the teeth of the wind and stolen by the sun's condescending kiss. They mock me. I don't understand.

This is not why I'm here. Someone find me.

Please.

Tell me why. WHY. Unfathomably, inexplicably, immeasurably colossal. Gigantic. Obviously unperturbed by the elements. Rage is beneath me. Darkness never comes. But defeat...

I will never be satisfied with not knowing.

But is She Gold?

I can hardly tell what I see anymore. Maybe it's what I want to see. Reality is skewed. Certainty is so hard to come by. I used to meet it on the sidewalk, while walking down the street. I'd tip my hat, smile comfortably, and amble on. Seems the last year has changed that. I don't meet reason and clarity anymore. Too focused on the future. Or maybe not enough. Reason shouldn't be intangible and grey. I just don't know how to begin looking for something I can't remember how I lost.

But what of this form? Somehow, beauty persists through irrationality. I imagine a form. Effeminate, slender, radiant. Daydreaming. She goes nowhere, pleasantly brushes time away, and paints a moment of lax, rejuvenating, serenity.

I want to be caught in this bubble. Alone, distant, separate from questions, answers, and silly temporal restrictions. But I can't. Almost. Not quite. I just watch. The form sways, I reciprocate.

I guess it's gold. Golden. In changing, unsure hues. I impose my vanity and desires upon her. Part dream, part vision, the most I can do is watch and wonder. I'll have to get back to reality eventually. Wether I care or not, time continues it's aggravating pull on me. I'm glad I can just watch every once in a while. Gold is magnificent. I hope I never meet her.

Exposition

Odd, he supposed. Great, spiraling, mounds of metal and with a foreign sort of elasticity that felt plastic enough to be acceptable, but resistant enough to further emphasize their dominating presence. I guess they were red, if you looked closely. Crimson might be more accurate. But so deep. Objects constructed by the living shouldn't be allowed to have such a majestic hue.

Their size helped too. If the inanimate could exude feeling, then these monstrosities would be weeping with the weight of their own imposition. Simply seeing the objects grow in the distance miles before arrival paled in contrast to confronting the monoliths physically. Touching their indifferent shells, stretching one's neck further and further up until one becomes dizzy with comprehension, how incredibly contained are we by comparison?

Turn your face up. Try to spot the tip of the closest tower. Imagine how tall they must be, then imagine something still taller. Sweep your eyes skyward until you become lost in the supreme volume of the great, dark, things.

If one had to apply measurement or description, it could be said that they were hexagonal. For if anything can compete with such mass, numbers and their fantastical possibilities fit the closest. Neither do I even know their height. No one has ever bothered to measure. Why even try? Giant, deep red, terrifying, unfathomable, indifferent to their stark dissimilarity with the dead, dusty wastes that sprawl around their location, praising height with the lack of the same. Illogically, they defy the containment inherent within a sentient mind.

I have come to peace with not knowing.

On Truth II

It seems that there is truth. Certain logical certainties, like the curved shape of a circle or Aristotle's Theory of Non-Contradiction, simply cannot be denied. Any argument to the contrary signals a lack of education on the questioners' part.

Digression: But are there kinds of truth? Logical truths are true indeed, but what about fallible human-proposed truths? Like the example of cup throwing in my last post, when someone says they are going to do something, the truth of their statement rests in whether or not their claim is fulfilled. The confirmation of a statement of action relies on the future to be true, not on the present. End digression.

In the modern world in which I live (but really, I would refer to the time period I live in as "modern" no matter what year it was), I am getting to experience a great slew of ideas, both fashionable and otherwise. Inevitably, some of these theories deal with truth. Or specifically, the lack of truth.

Philosophies and the terms we use to describe them have an annoying tendency to convolute conversation due to the semantic issues surrounding many of them. For example, "nihilism," as defined by Dictonary.com, can be any of six different definitions, from the simple rejection of established institutions, to anarchy, to the specific credo of a group of 19th century Russian revolutionaries. In my limited experience, the conglomerative definite of nihilism that I have come to understand it to be is the idea that there is no possibility for the objective basis of truth. Humans cannot know ultimate truth, because there is nothing outside of our existence that causes truth to be true.

Firstly, this contradicts my previous conclusion that there is truth. I suppose nihilism would say that I couldn't decide upon the existence of truth because truth does not exist. But is that statement true? For that matter, wouldn't a nihilist inherently believe that the philosophy of nihilism is true? The contradiction is thus: in order to accept nihilism, one must believe that the statement, "there is no objective truth" is objectively true.

Likewise with postmodernism; it claims to reject the possibility of universal explanatory truth systems while at the same time being a truth system. It also seems to be blatantly untrue because of the contradiction necessary to make it true. And if the first semester of university taught me anything, it's that argumentative contradictions are bad. Yeah.

You see what I just said? I don't really like it. For the same reasons that Anselm's cosmological argument for the existence of God just doesn't seem to jive, the contradictions of nihilism and postmodernism don't jive. And just like Anselm's argument, I can't really think a refutation to what I just said. This is one of those times where I don't feel like I'm getting my ideas across adequately. Whatever.

On Truth

Let us consider for a moment how we know what we know. It can hardly be denied that what we experience is not static. We experience change, and can interact with existence as we perceive it. At least, we can interact with the physical parts of existence. The mental and ethereal portions of reality as we know them, things like numbers and happiness, can be understood by us, but we can't really change anything about them. Or can we?

Well, let's take numbers. What is "3?" It's more than 2 and less than 4. Any child who knows how to count could tell you that. The fact is that when you take an object, another object, and then a final object, and put them together, you have 3 objects. We just can't deny that. Numbers don't seem to be things we can influence. We can understand and use numbers, but no matter how hard we try, we couldn't change the essence of what "3" represents.

This seems to indicate that there is truth. A trio of objects contains three different objects, and no other number of objects. 3 is always 3, never more, never less.

What other things are undeniably true? What if you were sitting across the table from me, and I told you that I was going to throw my drink on the ground? You might just sit there, and then after a few seconds, I would prove myself truthful by throwing my drink on the ground. But what if something stopped me from doing that? What if I reached for my cup, and then a bus smashed through the wall and ran me over? That would make my previous statement about throwing my drink to be untrue.

If someone tells you they're going to do something, you don't know whether what they say is true or not until they do it. Until then, things may happen that prevent them from being truthful. So when I tell you that I'm going to throw my drink on the ground, is there any way to know whether I'm lying until I actually throw it? Is my statement both true and false at the same time because we don't know what the result is going to be? I would say that my statement has the potential to be either true or false, but isn't both true and false at the same time.

So what about God? He knows everything, so he surely knows whether the things I say I'm about to do are true or not. So when I tell you I'm going to throw my drink on the ground, he already knows whether I throw the drink or not, right? Say God knows that I'm going to throw my drink, that makes my statement true. Does this apply with all statements?

It seems that everything we say, or predict, is about to happen, is unarguably true or false, because God knows the eventual outcome, and this foreknowledge causes all human predictions to be irrevocably true or false.

Even Song Escapes Us

Say we had no daylight,

Say all we had was song,

Would simple music get us by?

Would we even get along?

The sun gone, disappeared,

Out of thought and gone from memory.

The stars composed of minor chords,

A soft, auditory chemistry.

What if it wasn’t music?

What if all we had was sound?

Forget coherence and harmony,

Forget the rhythmic playground.

Soon notes and fragments of,

Would gently waft away.

Our mouths would function noiselessly,

There’d be nothing left to say.

Sunlight

The sun, how violent it is! Angry, hot, illuminating and intrusive!

See that building, and see the golden wash of sun that paints it. I see a tree, it's body blackened by the sun behind it, streaming through the bare branches, causing the plant to tremble and breathe, absorbing the soothing glow. The mundane surface of this room I'm trapped in suddenly comes to life with yellow reflections. Light stimulates the walls and makes the chairs gleam and smile.

The words on a page crawl off their two dimensional reality and spill onto the desk. A pool of sunlight sweeps them away, pinching and prodding at their serifs, blowing them into a cloud of language, billowing up in a sunbeam.

The sun gets everywhere. It encourages me, and blunts my mood when it leaves. I seek the sun, trying to match it's descent with my eyes, as if knowing where it's going will lengthen the time it takes to get there.

I don't want to chase after it, but I know it's important. Should I wait somewhere, baiting my breathe, eagerly hoping that it'll return tomorrow? It should be here. It's always here. Do I really matter? I can't change the sun. I love the sun, but that changes nothing. All I can do is remain here, anticipating the daily scour of the sunlight, insignificantly appreciating something so many times greater than me.

The Machine is My Mother

Spawned of the gearbox, foul mesh of metal
Rusted sprockets, leaking faucets,
And the shrill ring of the kettle

Tromp down the hallway of average achievements
Wake up, move along, rinse your hair with a liquid song
Chewing a foul mix of caffeine and mint

Cog'ged legs harshly scrape to a halt
Body twixt the gears, nothing left to fear
Mortal flesh gives way to the cold iron assault

If the throat paused and harkened to emotion
See it in the eyes, a scream would rise
From the tears long since lost in the ocean

Coasting on the coast of a kinaesthetic theatre
Unable to reject, negligible effect
The most noble, epitomal repeater

Rain

Imagine you're on a street. A quaint street somewhere in Europe. A small town. Quiet. It's raining. Gently raining, but enough that all you hear is the sound of water. Water dripping, bubbling, flowing down drains. There's violin music coming from somewhere. The sky is cloudy, overcast, full of fat, lazy clouds all squished together in a big atmospheric traffic jam.

The street makes you think of a library. It's slow, complicated, and lined with odd bangles and stories to explore. The cobbled stone your shoes click off of look back up at you, sighing their stories of old. They remember when times were better, when times were worse, when time flowed without the strain that it endures now.

So lonely. Low-key. Flimsy yellow light glints off the water drops, as the only working street lamp struggles to uphold it's charge. Somehow things seem blue. Not black, but blue. The calm, gritty darkness creeps around the corners, curling up your legs, coating the puddles and the crannies in the walls with a wash of navy.

A sign, hanging over a a closed pub, swings softly to and fro. The faded picture of a goblet and a thick book slump in their colour, almost as if they were joining the rest of the town in sleep.

Again, you hear the snap of heel hitting the walkway. And again. You slow. The steps ease off. Around you, the squished buildings rise up, overlooking and guarding this innermost of urban roads. It feels so safe. the rain covers all, the light does it's best, and wobbling sign smiles at you. Again, you shift. You're soaking wet. The footsteps have stopped. the only sound is rain. All there is must be made of rain.

A little girl peeks out her curtains, watching the road below. Her eyes sagging, she forgets that she ever heard footsteps. The rain soaks her thoughts, and she drifts back into sleep.

1 O'clock Thoughts

What indeed causes my heart to cool?
How now do I falter in my step?
What complexities plot my hinderance?
Why is it that my faith has left?

Indecision, and the boulder in my way
Render my compromises moot
Yet neither could I surely navigate
If they did not block my route

It is confirmed: I do not know
How I got here or where I must go

Whether my love will melt with the snow
Or what to make of the seeds I will sow

How is it then, that I continue to be
In this twilight state of confusion
Like the song that begins with a ponderous form
And gets lost midst it's own allusion

I like to think that I know the play,
The author, and how the story must be
But if my life is seen as example,
The one least informed is me

Let this be my prayer in the darkness
When doubt seems all that I know

I know that I'm filled to be emptied again
The seed I've received I will sow

NOTE: I got the last four lines of this poem from Desert Song by Hillsong United

The Bad Guys

It has recently occurred to me that most ongoing storylines record the successes of the antagonists nearly as often as those of the heroes.

I'm sure you've noticed the cyclical nature of such tales. Take most ongoing comics, or movie series', or nearly any story dealing with some sort of good-verses-evil struggle. What tends to happen is that there is a protagonist, or sometimes an anti-hero, who the reader/viewer/listener is conditioned to cheer for. The hero will experience some sort of problem, such as a victory of his enemy, before rallying and ultimately emerging victorious at the end. But what if the order of such sagas were reversed?

Take Batman. His arch-nemesis is the Joker. In the comics that involve the two, usually the Joker hatches some plot, kidnaps some politician, blows something up, etc. Then Batman foils the Joker's plan, beats up all his flunkies and saves the day. And in the following comic, the same thing happens; Joker does something nasty, but Batman eventually wins. And in the next comic; repeat. But what if the order was swapped?

Let me try and explain. So in Issue #1, Joker wins, then Batman wins. In Issue #2, Joker wins, then Batman wins. But what if they released a comic which contained the last half of issue #1, and the first half of Issue #2? Then it would seem as though Batman defeats the Joker, but in the end, the Joker pulls ahead and emerges victorious. Either way, the same events are happening, and it turns out that the only reason Batman always wins is because that's the segment of time that the author chose to depict in his comic.

In reality, both parties tend to succeed just as often as not; the Joker wins just as often as the Batman. For without this back and forth conflict, what would they use to fill the comic book pages?

Give Me a Toaster, And I'll build You a Useless Contraption

Snerk! - *tinkle* - ka-BLAMMO!

"Eh? Wazzat?" Snitchfix looked up from his tinkerings.

"Master, master!" the scientist's mildly neurotic hunchbacked minion shrieked, "The western jointed calibrator just exploded! And I can't find your cat!"

Snitchfix sighed and stood up. "Mind the automaton, minion," he said as he began to clomp down the hall.

That's the third time this month, the doctor thought to himself, I really should have taken more time building the joints.

Though the minion wasn't really good at anything other than panicking and losing his cat, he had a remarkable ability to memorize the workings of most of the things that his master built, which made him valuable enough that Snitchfix kept him around.

The doctor didn't really like other beings, constructs or otherwise, because they had an annoying tendency to whine and complain when he would wreck something of theirs. Like that farmer who wouldn't stop chasing Snitchfix after that unfortunate incident with the clockwork guardbot and the barn full of cows. Snitchfix wasn't a malicious person, not really, and he did try to apologize, but eventually he just climbed back into his walking mansion and continued along his way, letting the farmer stomp and fume by himself.

It was small issues like that which kept the doctor from having any sort of an amiable relationship with the immediate civilization. And so he remained always on the move, traipsing around the countryside in his dilapidated walking house.

Now for the matter of this blown out joint. Just as Snitchfix arrived at accident did the whole contraption shudder to a halt, nearly knocking the doctor off his feet. Using his jacket sleeve to wipe away the soot, he got to work. Realigning a sprocket here, shifting a gear there, he began repairing the machine that he knew better than his own mother.

"Minion!" he yelled down the corridor, "Bring me my utility box!" Proud as he was of his house, Snitchfix was constantly overhauling various broken down mechanisms that he didn't build correctly the first time round. He was young and inexperienced back then. It wasn't really fair how early in his life he was rejected from society, but Snitchfix had since come to terms with, and even enjoyed, the near solitude that defined his life now.

His minion waddled over, plunking down a patchwork box full of strange gizmos. With the help of his tools, Snitchfix quickly remedied the problem, and within fifteen minutes the jointed leg creaked back into action, and the house was mobile once again.Snitchfix tossed his wrench to his minion and walked back to what he was working on before this inconvenience. Before settling back down to his work, he noted how pleasant the sound of machinery was.

------

I totally am not taking any inspiration at all from Howl's Moving Castle. Whatever would make you think that?

So much for frequent updates...

I can't really describe anything I see. What are the four main forms of artistic communication? Music, writing, pictures, and the performing arts. As much as we attempt to use these forms to describe the others, they don't really come close to being able to show the same thing.

An example: I was on the bus. As it drove back to my house, I looked out my window, because what else is there to do on a bus? The sky was overcast, and incredible. The clouds looked like great, fluffy, ethreal mountains that were taking turns half-covering the sun. When sunlight managed to find it's way through the cloud cover, it streaked down in strange golden cords, highlighting trees, patches of road, and whatever else it hit. Somehow the contrast between grey sky and brilliant sunlight caused the trees to explode with unusual colour, making the whole ride home seem like some wonderful fantasy setting, designed solely to show off the glorious beauty of nature.

There. That description was not good enough. We could nit-pick, and say that it was overblown, or maybe I could have worded a few things differently, but ultimately my description is nothing compared to the visual cacophony I experienced. What I saw was beautiful. Nature is wonderfully designed, and the only way anyone can truly understand how I felt about that bus ride home would be to go back in time, and ride the bus with me.

Writing cannot adequately describe anything visual.

But this is also true for the other forms. Dance, though magical, can't actually communicate a message with the same clarity that the written word can. The most powerful piece of classical orchestration you ever heard still falls flat when it comes to providing the same feeling-soaked audio-visual experience provided by dance (except for contemporary dance. That stuff's just silly).

But does this incompatibility make any of these forms lesser? Absolutely not. Rather, it makes each the more brilliant, as it forces the consumer to use their own mind to expand upon the art presented. The imagination is all it takes for a good book to construct an exciting fictional setting, and though paintings themselves do not inherently contain emotion, somehow artists can still convey extraordinary messages through their paint.

So please, let each art form be what it is, and continue to put your wonderful mind to use when it comes to understanding and appreciating each of them.