Talking about language in an alien voice.
“Where are you from?”
“Germany.”
“Wow, you don´t sound german at all. You really german?”
“I am not german. I am here.”
How language affects my myself. – For the ones who didn´t notice, words are my passion. A predominant combination of letters, creating sounds, a replication of history, a quotation of culture and tradition. A code. Access to an unfolding concept. Hidden, whispering masterpiece of an iterating procedure of comparing and evaluation, containment of scopes, dull subconsciousness, as blank as dash. A creation of a basic human need, not only to survive, but to develop, to improve, to share, to bound, to terminate. Communication. Even if we shut up, which menkind including me should do more often, we think in words, the words we learned to express, us, me, myself, my feelings, my dreams, my point of view, my self-perception and perception in general. It helps us to establish a surrounding, a copy of the internal monologue. “I hate you, my love!” Language is pure dialectic, the dialectic of the impossibility to express what we think we think. Language is a self-conscious, a colossal, greedy and abysmal bastard of a gorge, with a structural disorder, transformation. I miss my language. Not german. But I am used to play with german. So. Yeah, guess I miss german. To battle on well-known territory. I appreciate a back and forth, in and out, round-trip and fall-back, jump forward to start. Language is a precious tool not just to express, but to interact with your mind, to turn around, twist the pattern, twirl and loosen some more screws. This is me, this is who I am. I speak, I think, I scream. This is my language, my language is the part of me you get in touch with, the part who makes it possible to get in touch or proof your intuition about would you call character, personality, spirit, soul, heart whatever. I miss the possibility to perplex, to mystify. Talking in another language means, you have to get naked. So far I am not able to talk about who I am, just that I am. Except after 20 beers and a couple of… but who gets the point anyway. This causes a reflection on what I really have to say. But how you decide? The vocabulary does. If you wanna please someone. If you wanna challenge someone to trash talk, to toy with, to show off. Tough shit. My fucking brain doesn´t work as fast as it has to, to act, react and translate, in seconds, one second. Bothers me. Fucking bothers me, stresses me out, pushes me back into the madness of self-hate. Strangles my narcissism. Leaves me behind like a supreme odd boy, in particular when it comes to attraction. And I am not an odd boy! Or maybe I am.
I can not patch the cracks and holes anymore by eloquence. Me, the naked odd boy.
“Don´t be too smart. – Or, be smart.” she told me.
I only and always just pretend to be smart. Language teached me vulnerability.
In other words, “SILENCE!!!”
