Chair. Think of a chair. Tell me, what do you see? …I see something different.
Love. Think about love. Tell me, what do you see? …I see something different.
Nostalgia. Think about nostalgia. Who do you see?
And yet we speak freely and even carelessly, using words as if the people we speak to could understand what we are trying to say. Sometimes I get so tired of talking.
We can’t understand things as they are, we can only understand them as we are. And I’m complicated. I’m guessing you are as well, if you’ve made it this far.
So much gets lost in translation.
When we are babies, it’s easy: smile means happy; frown means angry; tears mean sad. But somewhere along the way our cables cross, and we cry of happiness, and smile with contempt and all we have left is the process of learning to read between the lines and understand that in all the variety of feelings that we experience, there’s always a story, with a very clear beginning, but rarely an end, because the reality is…
…that we are living in a poem.
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