Eating too many burgers during the course of a long weekend has a debilitating effect on the mind. When most of the body's blood volume has been shunted to the digestive system, there isn't enough left over for the brain. This makes it the perfect time to ponder things like intuition.
Intuition, as I understand it, isn't a thought process at all. Instead, it's the absence of coherent attention; it's an empty bubble; it's a vacuum; it's nothing with something around it. Perversely, the instant I utter the blasphemy of understanding such a thing—such a no-thing—I'm immediately constrained by the same empty bubble that confounded my focus in the first place.
Since thinking about intuition is essentially the same as thinking about nothing, any attempt to explain how one might have arrived at a particular intuitive conclusion is problematic. It isn't so much that something is lost in the translation; the problem has more in common with converting the thought processes of Picasso to a computer program suitable for use by primates.
The situation may be especially familiar to women, simply because women seem more likely than men to rely on intuition. But how to explain the process—especially to a guy with a gutful of red meat—may be little more than an exercise in futility.
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