There is a love for complicated rhythms. Complex stories. Worlds filled to the top of the glass with detail. There are paintings with intricate designs, and stories told so deliberately that they assume a following based off of a love for design, not a love for meaning.
They spread meanings delicately, without the comprehension that they are only dimming the spark. They mute the intentions and replace it with what we see as elegance.
There is a power far above the control of this speech. Stories that can be told without diminishing the worth of the plot line. If only they are whispered through the terms of which we convey. A power that places understanding before the manufactured swing that we have been coached to accept as superior. Simplicity.
Simplicity can prove a world of matters into one sentence, and yet it is frowned upon. This world is a competition of the self invested, and is spoiled for those who speak from where they speak, and not from the knowledge they have been seeking for lifetimes.
