Words do not express thoughts very well

Couldn't sleep, so I re-read Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha. Love that book so much, especially Siddhartha's description of a stone to Govinda - it seems to sum up the essence of the book in such a wonderfully simple way:

Siddhartha bent down, lifted a stone from the ground and held it in his hand.
'This,' he said, handling it, 'is a stone, and within a certain length of time it will perhaps be soil and from the soil it will become a plant, animal or man. Previously, I should have said: This is just a stone; it has no value, it belongs to the world of the Maya, but perhaps because within the cycle of change it can also become man and spirit, it is also of importance. That is what I should have thought. But now I think: This stone is stone; it is also animal, God and Buddha. I do not respect and love it because it was one thing and will become something else, but because it has already long been everything and always is everything. I love it just because it is a stone, because today and now it appears to me a stone. I see value and meaning in each one of its fine markings and cavities, in the yellow, in the grey, in the hardness and the sound of it when I knock it, in the dryness or dampness of its surface. There are stones that feel like oil or soap, that look like leaves or sand, and each one is different and worships Om in its own way; each one is Brahman. At the same time it is very much stone, oily or soapy, and that is just what pleases me and seems wonderful and worthy of worship. But I will say no more about it. Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish. And yet it also pleases me and seems right that what is of value and wisdom to one man seems nonsense to another.'

It is the end of this passage that I really love. The idea that the thoughts of one person can be irrelevant to another, and yet can still be the most beautiful thing to the thinker. It's one of the reasons I've only ever let one person read any of the poems I write, because I'm very aware that the words I've chosen will change the meaning for everyone. By the same token, my interest in photography has grown out of appreciating details of the world, even if just for a few seconds. You can't help but be more aware of the things around you when setting up a photo. The light, the focus, the colours - each element is considered, and even if my hands shake and I take a bad photo, I've still had the opportunity to notice my surroundings more fully.

How wise the poet who has no ears
And looks for naught but stars hidden over the earth's crust.
No blinkers guard the poet's senses as he wanders this unseen paradise alone.
Mysteries seek him out,
Searching for a blank canvas to voice their tales.