I have a great mistrust of words. When I try to use them, to love them so intimately and feel each one, they twist and turn, poisoning the ears or the page they fall upon. The words that I hear dig and claw into me, and I am paralysed.
This is how we communicate, but I am sure you don’t understand me at all. No, not at all. But alone is so overdone. Every line a cliché that true meanings are hidden in experiences. But alas! We do not, we cannot, feel the same! In our madness, our frenzy to be connected, we spew, we spout, we spasm words, words, words! But not even I truly understood Hamlet’s dilemma.
Oh, but you saw how his words left him immobile!
Language is a prototype, never to be perfected, and so we wander, aimlessly focused, searching, and never knowing what for.
We’re all mad here and so commonplace for it.