I am reading a book whose main character is a linguist, so I can’t help but ponder the use of words. What is language for, really? If not for connection?
Here I am sitting by myself, tip-tap-typing to no one in particular, almost abusing language, in a sense. (Sure, my writing is perhaps ill-begotten and misshapen, but that’s not what I mean.) Instead of using language to connect, I can’t help but feel like I am shouting into a black hole. (Oh I know that perhaps there are 2.5 of you who read this drek, but you know what I mean.)
And I ponder the fact that this is sort of the only thing I have to use for the purpose of connecting me to the human race. I feel like I’ve really spent a long time in exile, skulking in shadows, avoiding the throng of humanity. Alone in the midst of millions of people.
I can’t help but feel that when I’m at work, there is a clear plastic shield blocking me from the people I interact with (both patients and colleagues.) I mean, we interact, but there’s this barrier that I don’t dare transgress.
I don’t know. Maybe all I really want is someone to talk to.
Someone who gives a damn.
And since I’m making wishes, please give me a million dollars. And, oh yeah, huge pectoral muscles.