Sometimes I get so frustrated, that you cannot understand me. That I speak a different language that is composed of colours and tastes and textures. Where you cannot understand the comfort of satin-y purple under fluorescent lights. That you don’t know the sweet ideas of a sweatshirt grey that’s like cold chocolate ice cream on your tongue and everything that entails.
When I want to talk in my native tongue, there isn’t anyone who can comprehend. Even those of you like me, we just speak a language of loneliness. We relate in that we know how it feels when we try to talk in the way we’re most comfortable, but everyone just sees it as childish, as stupid, as “less sophisticated”.
There is no cypher.
There is no textbook that can be written that will ever cover every letter, every number, every colour, every sound. You can pretend to know, you can mimic what we’ve said, but it’s not that language, that understanding, that vision of the world at large.
How do you explain the many levels of a certain shade of beige? Where it’s just a word for some, but for me it’s an emotion, it’s an entire idea that has no syllables, it’s a memory of something that I cannot explain.
I can describe it as the feeling of biting into something hollow. It’s breathing in a cloud of ash and that initial choking, coating of your lungs. It’s feeling soaked in a wet muck on your skin. It’s the light disappearing from your vision. It’s a cold plastic against your teeth.
It’s just that certain shade of black, as I know it.