Juan Ramon Jimenez once said of his work:
“Inner poetry eludes words. When one wishes to express something profound, one does not express it in jingles. In my first period I used adjectives, later the adjectives became substantives. Literary artistry is constant suffering for the poet; one doubts the exactness of words, their ability to express what we feel within us. We strive to find that spirited asset, the inner essence.”

Yes, the missing link, the age old Wittgensteinian problem in our day-to-day life, when we try to search for an idea, even an obscure ounce of it if maneuvered (un)consciously makes oneself so gleefully over joyous, the aftermath comes during the futile attempt of representing the original idea that it becomes so bleak by the broad daylight, it wanders and toddles even amongst the wildest of clapping. This overwhelming self-deprecation seems to occur because of a selfish attempt to huge amount of unattended work that was needed to flourish an alchemical idea which was unforeseen by the author due to its immediate materialistic potpourri.

“Pain is strange. A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire…. Pain arrives, BANG, and there it is, it sits on you. It’s real. And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you’ve suddenly become an idiot. There’s no cure for it unless you know somebody who understands how you feel, and knows how to help.”

― Charles Bukowski

Hiding

HIDING is a way of staying alive. Hiding is a way of holding ourselves until we are ready to come into the light. Even hiding the truth from ourselves can be a way to come to what we need in our own necessary time. Hiding is one of the brilliant and virtuoso practices of almost every part of the natural world: the protective quiet of an icy northern landscape, the held bud of a future summer rose, the snow bound internal pulse of the hibernating bear.

Hiding is underestimated. We are hidden by life in our mother’s womb until we grow and ready ourselves for our first appearance in the lighted world; to appear too early in that world is to find ourselves with the immediate necessity for outside intensive care.
Hiding done properly is the internal faithful promise for a proper future emergence, as embryos, as children or even as emerging adults in retreat from the names that have caught us and imprisoned us, often in ways where we have been too easily seen and too easily named.

We live in a time of the dissected soul, the immediate disclosure; our thoughts, imaginings and longings exposed to the light too much, too early and too often, our best qualities squeezed too soon into a world already awash with too easily articulated ideas that oppress our sense of self and our sense of others. What is real is almost always to begin with, hidden, and does not want to be understood by the part of our mind that mistakenly thinks it knows what is happening. What is precious inside us does not care to be known by the mind in ways that diminish its presence.

Hiding is an act of freedom from the misunderstanding of others, especially in the enclosing world of oppressive secret government and private entities, attempting to name us, to anticipate us, to leave us with no place to hide and grow in ways unmanaged by a creeping necessity for absolute naming, absolute tracking and absolute control. Hiding is a bid for independence, from others, from mistaken ideas we have about our selves, from an oppressive and mistaken wish to keep us completely safe, completely ministered to, and therefore completely managed.

Hiding is creative, necessary and beautifully subversive of outside interference and control. Hiding leaves life to itself, to become more of itself. Hiding is the radical independence necessary for our emergence into the light of a proper human future.

David Whyte

Though I have explored philosophy

as well as medicine and law,

applied my efforts to theology,

yet I stand, a foolish bore,

no wiser than I was before

with neither property nor fame.

I am a man without a name.

A dog would not accept this role,

so to magic I will devote my soul.

There are things that wait for us, patiently, in the dark corridors of our lives. We think we have moved on, put them out of mind, left them to desiccate and shrivel and blow away; but we are wrong.
— Neil Gaiman, “Introduction,” Trigger Warning: Short Fictions and Disturbances, 2015