Sufi Style
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You suspect that you may be a genius, but you
can't be sure. It occurs to you that you are
the most intelligent of your friends (many of
whose knowledge admittedly outpaces yours) by
virtue of the way you think. Furthermore, they
secretly know this to be true and have always
known it, or at the least for a very long time.
Your predicament places you at odds with
everything. To speak of it without proof is
bald arrogance. But alas, your proof lies in
those flittering concepts of mind for which
language has no corollary- not for you, in any
case, for you are a genius of ideas and not of
words.
So you sit and think it to yourself. You
receive correspondence from an old friend now
living abroad who has written a book; in the
book are ideas not unlike your own, although of
course they are not yours, could not be yours.
Had you the same facile prose at your disposal
you could produce a treatise of exceeding repute.
But as you start to compose your work you are
met with frustration, and your thoughts are
transformed and made meaningless and trite.
Years pass and your wife, who has neglected her
painting since your schooldays together,
retrieves the brush and resumes her art with a
renewed passion. Within months her renderings
are being acclaimed by top artisans of the
realm; people flock always to your door,
wordlessly you let them in and they rush past
you as if the portal had been blasted open by
a gust of wind and you, as the wind, are
invisible. And surely the paintings are
wondrous; you often go and sit in the garden
where you can be alone and stare long hours
through the patio window into the house, at a
portrait of you when you were young and full of
ideas. And you think it to yourself as you
fall asleep.