Seeing as our ancestors worshipped for thousands of years it’s hard to shake off the residuals. We all tend to worship. And I don’t need to go through a list of example worshipping, but I would gently point out celebrity worship. Still, I wondered what I worshipped. And I landed on language. That’s what I probably worship.
To go through so many prayers formatting my words and making sure each bead on my colossus keeps itself glued. Do you think maybe the Tower of Babel is a metaphor of philosophy/language itself? That no matter how much we stack words into sentences into paragraphs into treaties into corpus we will eventually worship the idol of strained thought more than anything else. God-view is to be had by destroying the tower. Why do so many people reach .enlightenment. in silence?
Can’t count the number of times I’ve written essays trying to better .connect. or .rectify. or some other nonsense talking to other people. Sometimes I would manage two thousand words, prodding carefully each nuance is correctly handled. So goes the stupidity of instant messaging that’ll wash itself away after another 20 messages of explaining the most absurd reasonings as if once you get it across you managed something real.
Because language has this (unfulfilled) promise that if you just splay enough the message will be received. Language as a trail to another’s soul. To be understood, to be understood; I say this is the primary motive for the delusional Love neurosis. To be understood, to be understood is the basis of all other comforts. If one understood you, then naturally one could help you and fulfill your void.
Well, unfortunately following that line of thought isn’t necessarily true. Even if someone did understand you there’s no sincere motive to help you, unless they believe you can help them too, and how horrible of a thought that is when you consider how you’re the one who is seeking, no answers in you? A romanticist’s stand-off.
See? Language can only be rubble upon the great tower. And you must take the steppes if you want to touch rays that do split clouds, split minds, split the difference on talking and showing.
When I say worship it comes with an undertone that it’s (mostly) fruitless, is it not? The other day I read a novel about sacrifice, and how it may be magic. That maybe the sacrifices were real and necessary. Every oxen gutted wasn’t in vain to appease.
Even if the sacrifice is real, if you could slaughter before the altar and receive your alms, I’ll still say this may be a little inefficient. Why not just gather the power yourself? So although I’ve gathered about another thousand or two up to offer to my God of Language, I spit upon the molehill I’ve made. Pour some kerosene to torch it.
How interesting is that. To spit and torch; that’s power. Actions.
Language is our scribe, not our master.