All concepts are vocabularies and
grammars,
definitions and rules, alphabets and signs,
chunks of hopeful comprehension.
All sharing is interpretation, all talk is translation.
I speak myself whenever I speak.
Who is there to translate for you?
Am I more than the words which delineate my life?
Which turn my thought's noise into language?
Or is there a silence that remains
unknowable, unspoken, unresolved?
How can we share our silence with anyone
until we understand the moment,
until we understand what's not language?
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