Unlike many intelligent people my age, I don’t know two languages.
I’m not bilingual. One Spanish class during freshman year was enough for a lifetime.
I’m not even sure I’m completely monolingual. Words have always been tricky for me. In the instances I when do sit down and spill my beliefs onto a new leaf, it isn’t done without a great deal of exertion. My illegible handwriting, mirroring my ideas of the same font, never fails to be produced without the ineffaceable smudge of my struggles across the paper.
Just like the miserable placement of my heart upon my sleeve, the quality of work I attempt to construct becomes restrained and burdened under the pressure of my opinions, spirit, and mentality, unintentionally weeping from the ache of my endeavors.
Yet, the creations I’ve strived to author become illogical and disconnected. Incomprehensible as if they were generated from a whole different language entirely.
So, I’ve simply quit trying.
I’ve abandoned my desire to be perceived definitively and found that my subconscious isn’t branded into literary compartments of English and Spanish, or any language I should’ve aspired to grasp.
Instead, the avenues of my mind are sectioned into anonymous paths of unbridled passion.
I wish I could write about my infatuation with life in a way that could someday be conveyed to someone who speaks the same language I do; a language that focuses on the significance of words rather than their conjugation.
Although I face difficulties articulating my thoughts in a precise, coherent manner, my interpretation of others’ clearly-worded concepts is a crucial asset. I may not always obtain the intentional meaning, but that, I think, is what makes the gravity of words so attractive.
My illegible handwriting, mirroring my ideas of the same font, never fails to be produced without the ineffaceable smudge of my struggles across the paper.
It isn’t the ebb and flow of artistically strung together chords in a song that lures me into the realm of music, but the emphasis and cadence of the poem cried from the richest cave of the heart. I helplessly turn to music and poetry to vocalize the thoughts that my mind can’t.
Every language is art—whether it’s to the tune of delicately constructed notes on a staff or simply a conscious conversation that embraces some degree of value. The true beauty behind them is the minute calculations that occur to understand their definition or significance, ultimately leading to a multitude of differing interpretations.
What’s most rewarding is that no singular conclusion can be labeled as inaccurate. Art is a naturally subjective craft with meaning placed in the individual emotions resulting from distinctive perceptions.
Personally, art is music, the imperfect brushstrokes of a sunset, the unique pulse of laughter, and words. This is my language; this is what can be seen from the crossroads of my heart.
It’s unfortunate that I never went through with perfecting Spanish because I know how impactful it can be to have an understanding of another way of communication. However, instead, I take the time to learn the dialect of those closest to me: what’s important to them, and, if I’m lucky enough, I’ll get a glimpse at what resides down the avenues of their mind—their passions, their peace.
Along the way, the realization that language is key to connection led me to focus on improving my own.
Instead of putting my fixations aside and going to great lengths to wait for others who can relate, I’ve set out to find people who speak my language, so I don’t waste any more time translating my soul.
