Intuitions are, in regard to thoughts, often arrogant.

When an intuition encounters an articulate thought, it sees only the engendering intuition, not the accomplishment of articulation. It treats the articulation as superfluous, and arrogates the thought as a whole as one it has had, too. The expressible thought is redundant.

But intuitions, until they are articulated (in word or form) are mute. How can any intuition signal its existence to any other intuition, when it is locked in silence? Perhaps the same mute intuition sits undetected side-by-side in uncomprehending darkness in myriad minds until it is illuminated with words. In the moment of illumination it glimpses what appears to be its own reflection.

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Articulating intuitions is a thankless task — unless you articulate intuitions who have grown so painfully lonely that they’ve striven for form and struggled for recognition and company, and consequently have come to appreciate the difficulty of saying what hasn’t been said.

When a thoroughly lonely intuition is given words, it welcomes them with deep, binding gratitude.