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seol_plumfallMy husband has made himself doubly confused.
Seol writes beautifully with the pen of doubt and belief, but twice he has doubled back and scrawled confusion over his words. The freshest ink reads, "I believe that I truly believe in my pleasure," but that is not the prayer his heart needs to raise up and gaze upon in order to heal his soul. For as he writes those words he frets about and doubts about the veracity of his beliefs, the possibility of a self-delusion, he may learn about what his mind considers necessary in order to deem some proposition true or false, but he will not learn to feel pleasure.
That sentence covers up the second wish he wrote, "I believe in my pleasure." Yet, that, too, is not the prayer he needs to pray. Because this conclusion, written in his skeptical beautiful ink, depends on his evaluation of the facts of his pleasure; to write that thesis, he must learn about his pleasure, gather knowledge of it, weigh the evidence of its existence against that of its nonexistence and give his opinion. And he will learn all about his pleasure, and perhaps he will learn all about the thing that is pleasure, and he will write a beautiful ontology -- but he will not learn to feel pleasure.
Those third and second sentences, in my husband's beautiful ink, cannot help him. No, indeed, my poor husband cannot use his favorite ink of doubt and belief to write a useful prayer to the Light. No: under those two confusions is the truth that was written first, in a faint pink flower-colored ink, the ink of dreamy memory and long sweet breaths, by the sleepy hand of a man not worrying about the veracity of things but feeling, feeling, feeling his skin, feeling his flesh, being alive:
I feel!
He needs to write that, again and again and again, to learn.
But how do I say it in Common?
Seol writes beautifully with the pen of doubt and belief, but twice he has doubled back and scrawled confusion over his words. The freshest ink reads, "I believe that I truly believe in my pleasure," but that is not the prayer his heart needs to raise up and gaze upon in order to heal his soul. For as he writes those words he frets about and doubts about the veracity of his beliefs, the possibility of a self-delusion, he may learn about what his mind considers necessary in order to deem some proposition true or false, but he will not learn to feel pleasure.
That sentence covers up the second wish he wrote, "I believe in my pleasure." Yet, that, too, is not the prayer he needs to pray. Because this conclusion, written in his skeptical beautiful ink, depends on his evaluation of the facts of his pleasure; to write that thesis, he must learn about his pleasure, gather knowledge of it, weigh the evidence of its existence against that of its nonexistence and give his opinion. And he will learn all about his pleasure, and perhaps he will learn all about the thing that is pleasure, and he will write a beautiful ontology -- but he will not learn to feel pleasure.
Those third and second sentences, in my husband's beautiful ink, cannot help him. No, indeed, my poor husband cannot use his favorite ink of doubt and belief to write a useful prayer to the Light. No: under those two confusions is the truth that was written first, in a faint pink flower-colored ink, the ink of dreamy memory and long sweet breaths, by the sleepy hand of a man not worrying about the veracity of things but feeling, feeling, feeling his skin, feeling his flesh, being alive:
I feel!
He needs to write that, again and again and again, to learn.
But how do I say it in Common?