As I am slowly rearranging my old Russian poems, they keep surprising me with how some things about me changed while others did not, no matter how many years have passed. For example, the poem below is about loneliness that results from our inability to put into words how we really feel, what we really experience. Coincidentally, the next entry that I am planning to write for my online experimental book Me, Looking for Meaning is supposed to be titled: "Why is language so unhelpful?". I love languages, and I know a few (which does not make me a linguistic expert, or course), yet I am continually amazed by how difficult it is to explain ourselves through words.
I am convinced that many misunderstandings, big and small, stem from our assumption that language is a simple and transparent tool. Abandoning it would be stupid, of course. Is there a solution? Blindly relying on words can make us feel desperate and lonely, the way I am describing it in my poem below. By acknowledging the imperfections of language without rejecting it, we may be able to find a place beyond words where a truer connection is possible.
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