In my mind I say it with such poignancy and conviction that I figure it will translate into written English verbiage with sieve-like fluidity. Yet, even as I type, I catch the grammatical slips and questionable subject-object-verb orders (that may or may not involve any errors at all) in order to get it ‘juuuuust right’. Inside, in my echoing rhetoric, I hear things stated into words about the acute observations I see throughout my day. Compulsively, I want to write about it and about it I want to right, but as it goes from abstract communicative linguistics to visual and tangible letters, words, and sentences- it loses something.
It loses the wondrous intangible essence. Just as an empyreal ray bellows through a stained glass window only to be greeted by a thick, “Halt, who goes there?” light is refracted into gentle weakened hues instead of the magnificent wave of strength. The words now get confiscated by the English language. They’re sifted by the great humpback whale and enclosed in its egregious body cavity. Socrates had a point about not writing his locutions.
As with all things, balance rides alongside, and so these words gain affection too. They consequently gain purposeful actuality by becoming understandable and reliable diacritics that conglomerate to become meaning in another’s head. Internalized lectures can now be shared with the masses and everyone has a share in the matter. Once it’s out on paper, it becomes something infinite and permanent, even a shredding or crumpling of the paper does nothing to its existence. Ephemerality of words evaporates; it was created and so it remains in this plane. Immutable in this existence. Plato accounted for Socrates’ unencrypted ways, and for the benefit of many over two millennia.
The words that circulate in my agape mind and body like a swirling energy trapped in an ornate Egyptian sarcophagus need to be radiated outward, and yet the minute they are released into the void they inhabit these claustrophobic letters, numbers, and symbols of conventional enscriptions. They don’t even begin to encompass the golden glow resonating so dutifully inside the incubating womb. These words do emerge and with it they envelope the sensations of something that is… There. But trite as they are and as grueling as I might, the orb of truth and meaning is not enraptured in these texts.
Maybe in a different language, maybe in a different world, maybe in a different sense, but here and now … NO… to my chagrin… I’ll still try to convert these energies into understandable diagrams so others can hear me through my skin. In words their brain eats and letters their nerves can digest.
