They say, sometimes words cannot describe what we live.
Sometimes living through the experience is the only truth one grasps, when depicting scenes and landscapes with words is a condemnation.
What if…what if, words themselves could be imbued with their own significance, out of any construct that relies upon experience and interpretation?
Could a language that becomes its own carrier be articulated?
Could it be shared and understood? For he who sees his own reality without the veil of his articulations, there might be a layer that can become true enough to be considered.
I remember a day when, sitting on a rock with a friend, the beauty of the landscape only equaled the quintessence of the language we were using to describe it. I felt right then on the departure towards a finer understanding of how contemplation is as valuable as description.
For some, words diminish the palette of what can be felt, but words don’t mean anything if misused; the beholder being the only one setting the bar of his own limitations. And for all my attempts to understand the power of my own metaphors, I wouldn’t be so sure of what words can or can’t do. Because contingencies don’t solely rely on tangible things. But also because, shaping my language as I shape my perceptions prevents me from pervading a tool that is so rich in itself, so colorful, and so complex that conceiving barriers for it would be conceiving barriers for the possibilities I have.
Aren’t we all at the mercy of our wild minds, unable sometimes to hear what it has to say?
Language poses the challenge to the enterprise of self-understanding. For it to be a major interface of communication, doesn’t that mean it’s worth considering it?
Abstractions, exchange, reflection, meaning, significance, interpretation, imagination… are all aspects that can be derived from it.
Use it and become a poet; imagine it and become a story teller, harmonize it and become a singer. And the list could go on.
I often find myself bewildered, when my attempts to tame my words don’t match my expectations, and trying to refine my language validates this idea I always had about it, being almost an alien; something bizarre that lives inside of me; something I use to interface my mental machinery with yours.
They say language is limited, and carries on a paucity of what can be transmitted. I find though the limitations can be narrowed down, as they leave room for other aspects there is no match for.
Phrases can hurt, or bring joy; poetry can drive emotions and stories are intended to convey us to the farthest places on earth and beyond. My feet would never take me there, yet I have seen it all.
I have seen the volcanoes of Iceland, the ships of Captain Cook, so the lands of Lemuria.
I have heard the whispering wind of Arnhem Land and the songs druids sang, amongst countless experiences a language made possible. My feet touched the lands of Mu, and I saw the trees of Sundaland, Excalibur in Avalon, pieces of gold in Quivira.
This is when I consider an ontogenesis for my language that I can create manifolds for richer experiences, deeper intentionalities, and truer manifestation in flesh of words I speak.
Sometimes it is my friend, sometimes it is my nemesis. Sometimes I can speak it out loud, sometimes I want it to remain secret. Sometimes it transcends the space I am in; sometimes it disappears for a while, and when it comes back, I call it reality. Suffice to say it presents polymorphic properties, but it’s a tautology.
The more I try to understand it, the more I fail, because there is nothing to understand for it; and I feel the most valuable thing with it remains its usage. Speaking it allows this metastable allotrope of syllable to become a pure jewel.
Offer it to someone blind and he will see.
Sing it in cold places and it will become the hardest fire there is.
Teach it to a naked man, and he will become the richest person there is…