You say no more words because it is something to say, a way to get started on using more words to constellate yourself, to orient your innate trembling. Mapless, we wander. To wander, mapless and wordless, what would that be like? Would you improvise by the light of the moon? Here’s another way of looking at it: You are lost in a labyrinth. Would you agree that you are lost in a labyrinth? You pause, consider your situation … yes, I agree that I’m lost in a labyrinth. Okay, so now that lost inside labyrinth has been established as your circumstances, your goal is to find your way out of the labyrinth. The thing is, and this is what you refuse to admit, this the bane of denial—the very words you are using is what the labyrinth is made of. Without the words there is no labyrinth. In other words, no words will save you. Silence is the way out. Silence will destroy the illusion of a labyrinth in which you are trapped, of walls closing in and all that existential jazz. Your greatest fear is the silence. Why? Because, within it, the labyrinth can remain a labyrinth and you can remain trapped, desperate to find your way out. And you can use words, many words, found words, lost words to engineer escape. Beware of metaphors. They will mislead you. Words are not to be trusted. Especially when they band together in groups. They say that in the beginning was the word. But they didn’t finish the true sentence. In the beginning was the Word … and it betrayed silence. Or to remix: In the beginning was the Word, and this was the beginning of fiction.
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari