Between A River and the Sea

…I’ve always thought that a writer’s inability to convey a thing purely through the use of his words was a fault all his own, something of a weakness for such a player of expressions; but after having spent the last few weeks searching and searching through the words I know, for something to show, to say, to be what I mean and finding none to suffice, I’ve starting to reason that maybe I haven’t the words because they do not exist in the language I know how to express them in. A while back I read an article that discussed the relationship between identity and language and how a person, a culture, a truth, can only be, in so far as ones language permits it. Aldoux Huxley, a favorite author of mine, reiterated this fact to state the truths of everyman as essentially one in the same, by pointing out that everyone creates and understands everything they know to be as true in a language particular to their roots, thus what one man understands as a mountain another understands as a slumbering giant. And curiously enough, as the days pass and I am left facing the blank pages of my journal this single theory of knowing is my only consolation in my realizing that everything I know is neither relevant nor true in the world into which I’ve now come…