Language

I have Logolepsy. This means I am obsessed with words, So much so that when I was eleven I wanted to be the lexicographer on countdown. To me it makes sense that I would love words, I have been reading for a long time. I learnt to read well before I got to school. When the others in my reception class were still on “The magic Key” books, I was reading the first Harry potter, though I did mispronounce a lot of the words.

The English language has many strange words that I am very fond of. My favourite currently is Cornobble. This means, to slap or beat someone with a fish. Another pretty word is Psithurism, which is the sound of the wind blowing thought the trees and I have often wanted to yerd people when they call me strange for liking words. Yerd being to beat someone with a stick.

Our language has evolved from Shakespeare’s difficult verses, to text talk and emoji’s, which I am convinced is just human kind reverting back to hieroglyphics, and yet we still manage to create beautiful poetry, comedy, and tales with the ever expanding dictionaries of modern words that are our brains.

And who creates these amazing pieces of text that are being propelled at us from every available angle? The younger generation. We are the ones that can use shorthand and abbreviations to communicate in one moment, then churn out sonnets and soliloquies the next. We aren’t just the generation of technology, we are the generation of art.

Coincidently, there is a wonderful word that describes how I thought of this; Jouska, a theoretical conversation that you compulsively play out on your head. This Jouska came from a Sonder moment. Sonder being the realisation that everyone you pass has a life that is as vivid and as complex as yours. And although everyone has a vivid and complex life, I bet everyone will Google the words I have spoken, to make sure I am not making things up. 

The Book I Will Never Write

So many ideas flutter around my head each night. The sleep induced thoughts that drift from the deepest mesh of the brain. My thoughts are never so pleasant as to present fields of daises or butter cups, but are pleasant enough to bring fourth barriers to the monsters, or if barriers are a scarce option, a blade to duel with. 

I use these thoughts to create a manuscript. A masterpiece of language and captivating speech, a volume of adventure, of love, of life. Perhaps there is a hero, or maybe I am that. Sometimes there are villains, but I can play this part just as well. This gripping manual is perspective view of my understanding of reality, so I don't expect to make sense. 

My opus is a work in progress, a never ending story. Another tale gets added to the anthology and makes it harder to conclude. However much I want the ending to come, I am never provided with the resolution. Some things aren't meant to end. Some things aren't meant to be written.

Unfortunately, this is the book I will never write.