All my life, as far as I remember, the narrator inside my head has been telling me, ‘you’re not heard, you’re not understood, you’re not listened to’, even in the middle of conversations I’m having.
The uncertainty in human conversations makes me think of the words and stories as a beautiful picture kept on a display by some photographer. The picture is there, with a single paused frame, stuck in that specific time and space of existence. We, as an observer, have no way of figuring out what might have happened one minute earlier or one minute after the frame. Yet we look at the frame, narrate our own version of story around it, try to take it in our individual heads and individual hearts.
As we speak to another person, we are constantly trying our best to let them inside our heads, let them experience how it feels like to be us, to feel like us, to see things from inside of us. But at the same time, there is no way of knowing they experience the same version of it as we tell them. When I tell you about a tree, there in no way of knowing the tree inside your head will be the same tree that came out of my head. The trees will always be different, be it their colors, leaves, or whole existence of it. The trees won’t ever be the same.
Words are dead. They’re just symbols. I wish we spoke the languages of fingers and eyes more often. I wish we could see the words and add colors and shades to them as we speak. If only we could see and talk in the shades of individual colors, we’d probably be living in the rainbows. But here we are, living in contrasts, to our individual monochromes.