Short

(or I or Me, and Possibly You; or The Point of all This Stabbing; or How Else Should we Spend our Time; or I think the Title Should be One of These or Possibly None of These)

 

It’s a silly thing, to try to write. Or to speak. To try to use words to convey meaning. It’s an absurd thing to try to do. A futile thing. As if you can possibly communicate the complexity of the emotions you feel with a few scrawlings on a page? Because that’s what we’re doing, we writers. We just stab at the page with our pen until some of the scrawlings align into a thing that hopefully means something to I or me, and possibly you.

To a large portion of the world, the scrawlings will never mean anything, because they don’t speak our language. But language itself must be important, because every civilization, everywhere, for all time, has formed one somehow. But the very existence of so many different languages must mean that none of them really work, or else we would have ended all the fuss and just picked one.

But we are not inherently silly or absurd beings; there must have been a good reason to try and create a language that worked. I suppose the impetus for creating language was a noble one, or perhaps an essential one.

It probably started with names, with the desire to have something to call each other. I am me, you are you. But, sometimes I can be I, although you will still only be you. Unless you are the one to use the language yourself, of course, in which case you can also be me and sometimes I. And then, of course, I will be you, if it is still we who are using the language together. But do try to stay on top of whether you are I or me, and possibly you, or else I’ll get confused. Look at us. We’ve established three words, and we’re already struggling.

It’s a miracle we ever got past this stage. But we did, somehow, and progressed from naming ourselves to naming the things around us and the things we were doing. Because everything must have a name, or else how should we know it? How should we make sense of it, as it relates to I or me, and possibly you? Which of course, is the only good reason to talk about a thing, to identify its relation to I or me, and possibly you (which is, of course, the purpose of the thing itself).

So we started naming the things we did. Moving was probably first. When we first moved we wanted to name that motion so we said we were walking. So when we moved we were walking and when we were not moving we were not walking (perhaps not was how we decided to distinguish when I was I or me or when I was you, because when I am not I or me, then I must be you).  But there were also times when we were walking faster, and we started walking so much faster it seemed distinctly different from both walking and not walking so we had to make a new word and call it running.

But then we saw ourselves moving at a speed that was between walking and running and we did it often enough to make it feel like a significantly distinct event and thus it warranted yet another word and so now we had jogging, which inevitably led to an ever-expanding list of subtle distinctions in regards to movement including sprinting, romping, prowling, marching, prancing, striding, sauntering, strutting, trotting, strolling, parading, pacing, waddling, meandering, wandering, plodding, moseying, waltzing, ambling, limping, hobbling, and crawling, amongst others, of course. And for the actions not related to movement, we also came up with a whole set of names to describe all the tiny different ways we would do any given action.

And then we even named this set of all these names and named it language, or more likely, the name for the language that was now used by I or me, and possibly you.

Even our set of names had a name, but none of the names ever really said what we were trying to say. The names always fell short. Sometimes just by a bit, but short nonetheless. They never attacked the essence of the thing itself. As soon as we thought we had something nailed down, we finally had a word that meant the thing we had been trying to say, the thing itself changed, and we were forced to create yet another word.

The frustration that we will never truly be able to properly describe our world will only lead us to create more words that attempt, again, in vain, to describe it. The signifiers will increase ad infinitem but the signs, well there have only ever been so many signs.

That’s the sad truth about language. No words will ever be enough. They will always fail us. They will always fall short. There is no way to truly describe a feeling or an event. Things just happen and we try to assign words to them so we can tell others, so they can join in on the experience of observation with us, so they can feel the feelings we feel, and feel warm in all the same spaces. Even when we experience the same things, the warmths of personal observation are never identical.

Despite this truth, I suppose we’ll continue. We humans, we writers. Stabbing our pages. Mashing together old words. Making up new words all day long that only fall short. Maybe there are a few words out there we just haven’t thought of yet. Maybe there’s just one that gets at the essence of some indescribable thing we’ve been trying to say for years and have said a thousand different ways but they’ve all fallen short so far, they’ve all failed to show how the thing relates to I or me, and possibly you.

Maybe there’s just one word that I’ll pick someday, and I’ll think it really gets at the heart of what it’s supposed to mean, it’s the one word that finally succeeds. Maybe someday when I feel like an I and I think there’s a you who I want to tell about that thing that this word means. Maybe you will actually want to listen to my word, to stoop your ear and really listen. Maybe I’ll whisper this word in your ear, in between I and you and then you’ll look at me and I’ll see the smile in your eyes and you’ll see the smile in mine and we’ll know that we found the word and we’ll speak the word to no one else, because they wouldn’t understand it if we did, because they are not us.

After all, that’s the whole point of all this language, right? To find a thing, give it a name, and show how it relates to I or me, and possibly you?

I suppose I will continue to write. To stab at my page in vain. And to search for words. I suppose you should too.