There is a word hidden within the folds of a blanket, a blanket that shelters the naked dreamer as he sleeps. It is a word that is not a word, a spectre dwelling in the tunes sung by lamenting poets lost in the dreamscape of desperate wanderers. I too hear it as I lie awake, naked in half-sleep. The phantom whispers to me, revealing all about itself a man could ever wish to know, but it does not speak our language. It never will. What a blessing is being one of the accursed! How fortunate we are, the condemned wanderer-poets aimlessly adrift and carried by currents we do not understand. Any claim of confident navigation across these depths is nothing but the endearing optimism of those not yet disillusioned.
Dreamscape wanderers, half-sleeping, naked poets, yes that is what we are when we in delirium try in vain to define the word that is not a word. Perhaps it is with childish folly we create a female embodiment of it and call it our muse, a lonely man’s faltering attempts at flirtation with something already defined – but it is as it is with the feminine, boundless, limitless, and should not be confined by being defined. True beauty is without form, ethereal, male and female at the same time and yet neither.
We all long to understand the word, the word that at long last I’ve finally understood and not merely heard. But who would listen to a naked man?