The rustling blades and whispering wind

I sometimes feel like the barber-slave who knows Midas has donkey ears but has no one to tell, so digs a hole in the ground and tells his secret to the silent earth. Just so you follow the analogy: the internet is the dirt, this blog is a hole, and my posts are ass-ear whisperings. That seems about right.

But the thing is, the barber-slave had to speak, he couldn't contain himself--he had to say something somewhere, say something, anything, silence was death, voice was life (for breath is life, release, freedom, replenishment, rebirth), speech was how he became, the word was how he existed, so once he had something to say he said it, if only to the ground. Therein at least do I sympathize and identify.