Words seem less adequate as life goes on. Oh, I don't think I'm losing anything. Not yet. Not much. It's just that my desire to communicate requires so very much more than any vocabulary that I'm likely to put together in this lifetime.
If I were Bo Diddley or Gauguin, Houdini or Mozart, maybe I could express what I have to tell you. It comes in light rays through the cosmos and it is stored in hearts and stars and museums. You can find hints and traces in oil slicks in rain puddles and you can hear it when the wind rustles in the palm trees.
I know that it's about love and I know that it changes color. Kids know- some of them. Animals and poets and scientists sometimes seem to get a glimpse. On the continuum of truth, it hides in the heart and in the soul.
Turns out, there's nothing funny about peace, love and understanding. The very idea surely makes me smile, though.
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