There is a momentary gap in-between expressible and inexpressible emotion in which the only proper solution seems to be saying a word, over and over again, in the hopes one time out of those million syllable-cycles, you’ll catch that gleaming, ephemeral essence of what is in you. Well, either what was already in you, or what someone else put there.
We keep writing words, turning them on their head, piling them on top of each other, bulking them up or making them threadbare– for what?
We grab our many tools, our cameras, with shafts of light reaching out for what’s in-front of it with every shot we take, our projectors, to constantly press the past back into the present-day– for what?
We keep trying to capture what the moments we experience mean so deeply to us that cannot be expressed in any way we yet know how– and hope that one time out of those million planetary cycles, we’ll get it right, and maybe, for once, the Earth will stop and pay tribute to all we feel, for just a little bit. All those words embossed upon the inner layer of our minds will finally spill through like searchlights in the street, hoping to reach that one for which they’re shining for. And after that point, nothing is lost in translation. And miracles are never dead again.
Until then, I’ll just keep whispering your name, sounding out each consonant and rounding out each vowel, and singing it along the next bullet-train breeze, and hope that the right one will carry its life to you.