No One Told The Turtles They Can't.

To write simply. To simply write. What is it that is so magical, so elegant about the act of writing, of arranging words on a page, of choosing from infinite divergent branches to create one whole?

Is it the process of distilling infinite possibility? A book, then, in many ways is a tome of death for the unexplored pathways. By choosing one idea, you exclude another. By choosing one word, you’ve collapsed the possibility space. Which means every stroke of your pen destroys infinities. How weirdly wonderful?

And we do this all the time, constantly, in speaking, playing, moving. It’s like Zeno’s paradox, except no one ever told the turtles they can’t.

They just do it anyways.