What Can’t Be Said
A meditation on the vast distance between words & truth.
Some things lose their meaning the moment you try to explain them.
Love. Awe. Grief. God.
When language tries to name the infinite, it shrinks it in the process.
In Zen, the finger pointing at the moon is not the moon.
Words can guide us to truth, but they aren’t truth itself.
The more we talk about it, the further away we drift.
Sometimes silence is not the absence of thought. It's a surrender to the ineffability of being.
To understand what can’t be said, you don’t need better words.
You need silence.
“Speaking” is the symbol suggesting symbols in the listeners mind adjacent to what is meant, doing is the ritualistic prayer practiced by the cult of what is meant.
Love, awe, grief, God, each of these is a doorway, and every attempt to define the doorway turns us away from what lies beyond it. Explanation is a lantern, but the infinite does not live in lit rooms. It lives in the dark, where meaning is felt rather than captured. When we speak of these things, something delicate is always lost. The fullness shrinks. The immediacy dissolves. The experience becomes an echo of itself.