• myrrhc 27w

    “I want to share something Virginia Woolf wrote: ‘English, which can express the thoughts of Hamlet and the tragedy of Lear, has no words for the shiver and the headache. . . . The merest schoolgirl, when she falls in love, has Shakespeare or Keats to speak her mind for her; but let a sufferer try to describe a pain in his head to a doctor and language at once runs dry.’ And we’re such language-based creatures that to some extent we cannot know what we cannot name. And so we assume it isn’t real. We refer to it with catch-all terms, like crazy or chronic pain, terms that both ostracize and minimize. The term chronic pain captures nothing of the grinding, constant, ceaseless, inescapable hurt. And the term crazy arrives at us with none of the terror and worry you live with. Nor do either of those terms connote the courage people in such pains exemplify, which is why I’d ask you to frame your mental health around a word other than crazy.”
    -dr. singh (John Green's Turtles All The Way Down).

    there is something about the word, coward, that takes off the bat from its letter w; which in turn would give you, coard, pronouncing a denotation of a cord or a chord. both terms that are supplements of connection. leaves, i'd say, are proportions of trees. letters scrambled to become the extent of what they can label as a pile in autumn, tumbled for decay. i don't think i may be of any difference from them, i think.

    i remember the quote that said "the eyes are the windows of the soul," whose author i couldn't really trace back with google search engine saying it was originally shakespeare's or plato's, or the french poet, guillaume de salluste du bartas, who described the eyes as “these lovely lamps, these windows of the soul." it reminds me of outerspace, maybe? you know, when you partially believe that you are something you thought you were only to end up realizing that this belief is an erosion from the actual meaning of things you are in denial of. oblivion, nothingness, withered, dried. we are wonders of varnished letters gathered from the same alphabet.

    sometimes i try to think about the transitions of people or things that stay as a proportion or a connotation to its primary meaning. that's what these leaves are made of, or english perhaps, made of a few words but a gazillion letters.

    earlier this noon, the rain was continuously pouring. and although i could no more count its drops than the number of times i thought i was ridiculous, the puddles appeared. and i was thinking, if people spoke the right language and knew the right terms, it would be as though the weather that tells you of wonder and makes you look up to sky and the moon. even if they couldn't see it, they knew it was there.

    it sounds so easy to be judged once the actual thing is there. when the house is fully built but with a creaking door, a healed broken leg but couldn't walk as straight yet, or my description of i, growing for this number of years, but still too filled with plot holes. maybe i can't say what it must feel like to be the actual thing. i don't know how bright the stars may have when overcasted, how many the leaves are when piled, how cold winter is when i only have rain.

    i wonder what it must be to have all the words, all the right ones. i wonder if it makes me any different.

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