Futility

Sometimes I dread writing this blog. I dread drafting a post with my pen and my notebook, attempting to share my thoughts and experiences. After all, what can I share with you dear reader, besides words?

Words betray so much. They come to you as mere pixels on a screen – pixels trying to embody sight, touch, taste, sound, smell and the millions of neuronal pathways that echo after.

I see a little girl, adorned with tribal necklaces and earring stuff of the same sort, but no clothing of any sort; bare skin temporarily shaded by the roof of a mama shop. She gazes at me with a stare so penetrating that I have to look away, unwilling to reveal the inner depths of my self before even I find them. Keeping that unwavering look, she munches on her biscuit, crunching in tandem with the throbbing of my heart. A whiff of river scents emanate from her dirt washed, dirt stained, bleached-looking hair as I taste the khao neow stuck to her hair from my previous meal.

This takes a minute to read a few more to to write, but is a mere second of experience. Have I shared enough? So many details left undescribed, so many moments that precede and even more that await, making this one moment, this descriptive attempt, a memory for me but a mere paragraph for you.

But forgive the inability of my words, for without their failure you will never join me, or set off in search for something that is not merely words.

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