Sometimes I look in the mirror and I’m surprised by the person looking back at me. My reflection is more somber or calm, handsome or icky that I imagined myself to be. If eyes are the window to the soul, I think my shutters are stuck. And that leads me into some words about words:
Words are not thoughts. They try to be thoughts, they advertise themselves as conveyors of thought and emotion, they clad themselves in the illusion of meaning, but words are what they are. And words are not thoughts. I speak words, try to squeeze this immense ball of emotion and confusion in my chest into chains of syllables. But the words are not my thoughts. I can see it, SEE IT, when words go awry, when the meaning of words gets jumbled and twisted, my imperfect translation imperfectly translated. Like trying to express yourself, the depth of your innermost being, through Google Translate after moving from English to Spanish to French and back to English. Only bits come through and much confusing and misleading cruft. I am writing words, you are reading these words. But these words are in no way a reflection of the pressure my emotions exert within me. I feel my heart as a supernova, an exploding star trapped within skin and ribs and muscle and my crossed arms. And all that I can do to let out this incredible pressure, the only thing to allow this explosion of heat out of my chest is words, which you will not hear or read or interpret correctly, because words are not thoughts.
