Gobbledygook

It always wins, with me, it somehow always wins.

Peeving, annoying little bastard, that guilt. The Bugger managed to slap me out of my somnolence, grab me by the scruff of my neck and drag me to the table. Astonishingly strong, it arm-locked my neck and pushed me down hard. A dirty breath close to my ears began whispering. It ordered me work those fingers, quick, punch in the characters and get in...

I stood at the door and cupped my hands around my eyes and peeped into the desolate, dusty insides of my chronicle. After looking around a bit, I decided I wanted to stay a while. And if the fancy seized me, write a little. Add a little more Gobbledygook.

So Gobbledygook it shall be. Gobbledygook, as it has always been, you may think. Mindless, incoherent ramblings of a mad, directionless man. A tangled head full of dualities. A mind lacking equanimity, wreaked by a stimulant induced torpidity. Stimulant, material and incorporeal.

But answer me this first, has anything that I've ever scooped out of my heart ever made any sense to you? Have you ever been able to understand your heart, fully? Can one ever articulate, with the precision of a surgeon how one feels? Have you been able to, to the last detail, describe the exact extent of your hurt or your longing? Have you? I think not. You may memorise dictionaries, climb the Himalayas in a quest to awaken the inner eye, you may self introspect all you want, but you can never ever, to the fullest, truest extent, describe some things. Know why?

Because, they are not meant to be understood, leave alone describe.

They aren't meant to be articulated. They are yours alone to feel, to suffer, to enjoy.

Hence the Gobbledygook. A squishy-squashy, splodgy, mush of clumsily gathered words that can only hope to convey a feeling.

Want a second helping? There's lots to go around, there always is.