My brother talks in haiku. He has his phrases, his bits and pieces that fly from his fingers as he grips his iPhone in his hands, a whole universe in his palms–but what does he know to do with it?
The words are not the thoughts that live inside his head. They are something like a molecule of the entirety. He can’t express himself. He can’t tell me what he’s thinking about. His words have a chokehold on him, and he fights so hard against that grip. But he will never win that fight.
I speak I rant I rave I talk I soliloquize I chat I convey I declare I utter I voice I whisper I say I yammer I write. I choose each word with care and deliberation, and they work their magic for me–for me, when I am reaching for you, for you all.
How lucky I am…
Language is the barrier between him and me. Language is the barrier between him and the world.
But in the end–let us not be naive, friends–it’s language that does us all in.