They confuse me, too. There's always that feeling, that wondering, of where the disconnect is. Even when you try so hard to get along, you wonder if maybe you're trying too hard; if you're coming off as pathetic.
I wish I could write grandly.
Spilling my words onto the page
or screen
My thoughts swirling and encompassing the reader
Until they're left with that feeling
that unknowing
that floating, meandering, purposeful feeling
Of meaning unseen
hidden.
I've almost lost the art.
No one is to blame. Not the teachers, with their desires for easily-transmissible messages. Not my peers, with their looks of gentle puzzlement. Not even Flammanatus, for scoffing whenever I tried.
But reading the words and works of others who never conformed
never tried to shape what they were saying into neat little packages, but instead let their words run rampant, imbued with meaning and a sense of things too deep to ever speak, makes me feel
Lost
Small
Lesser
Sad
Longing
Wishing that I could do it, too.
That I could say and write these things
So profound
Instead of just
A pale imitation.
A pale imitation that will be scoffed at and met with looks of gentle puzzlement.
There's something so amazing about being able to transmit meaning through wildly, chaotically graceful imprecision.
Someday I'll find it again.
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