On coming back home or How to speak a language no one understands

“I know that we are young and I know that you may love me but I just can't be with you like this anymore.”

Lady GaGa, Alejandro

There's this thing about language. Powerful tool. I don't really think we are aware of the power it holds over us. Really.

By giving us specific vocabulary it gives us means of thinking and grasping ideas. The grammar gives us the possibility of forming these ideas into “communicationable” forms.

More or less complex. Less or more simple.

How do you express the feeling of loneliness?

The feeling so great it inspires ripping of the skin. Ideas of it. Practice of it. Loneliness that makes you sit and look at the people around you and see then as fading images so remotely far away from you. And even if you get the courage to speak the silence, the pressure of silence completely sucks in your voice. Wasted voice, wasted air. Air that could have been the first breath of a new born life. Wasted. Into the (w)hole of loneliness.

How does one find, yet again, the will to carry on? The will to keep living this life and not to give up.