I love images. I love them more than numbers and words and often more than sounds. Sometimes more than smells. Though that's not really fair. Smells hit the deepest. They hit places that only a few can translate anyway.
Images. The visible ones. The ones in color and the ones with only shades of grey. The ones that gently move and the ones that move violently. Or not at all.
The ones that are visible and recorded and created, organized, shared, seen by more than one person. And the ones that were never properly recorded, were not fully created, never shared, completely unorganized, visible only with eyes closed, yet pretty spectacular. Or barely tangible and so subtle, so subtle.
The image of a hand touching the waves of the ocean. The tips of trees on an island, with little animals jumping in them. My father falling of a box.
A large bubble floating away from me, violent storms on its surface making fun of my reflection.
Plop.
And so many images I do not even dare to translate into words. One of the reasons why I have been barely writing anything here, despite of having experienced so much in the last few years, is the inadequacy of my language. Any language though.
How do I describe some very indescribable things?
When? Why?
Or maybe all I can do is write down single doorways into thoughts. And they will then lead into places that will unfold into secret gardens?
But why would I? Why here?
Language is so incredibly important. If it were not, it would not be used by most of us. But it is also a linear, historic, thing, drenched in opinion and experiences of an entire group of people. Writing in English even is already such a...
I don't think there is a word for that.
Images. I love images. They are as fragile and imperfect, and incredible and so...
there is no word for that.
I do not like when what I write is so playful without being concrete enough.
What I have just written feels like an indoor cloud, with just tiny specs of man made dust in it. The shape of a hand is there, an island, a little box, the numbers 13 and 14?
Tea. Water.
To write better I need to write more.
Maybe that's the secret.
Many words.
Again.
Perhaps that's the way to go.
The path to take.
The slope.
Or better some completely off road everything.
Language that invents itself as it goes.
Might be better.
There is no way to know.
Szerokiej drogi, jezyku.
