I am speaking today of a new language.
It comes from my brushes
from my paints.
It is not easily understood.
It is sometimes considered gibberish
or foolish babbling.
Sometimes no one understands
and it recedes into my lungs and stays there.
Sometimes it is glorious
like well spoken Latin
or ranted Russian.
Sometimes it is more poetic
like Italian spoken to a lover.
Or French
like a fine gourmet meal cooked with aplomb!
But often when I speak it
I only understand it.
Truly strange to be the only one of a nationality embracing a singular sound.
Truly strange to express it,
paint it
and have no one glance back
as they do to a fool glammering on the subway.
Or whispering under your breath when you are lifting something unwiedling.
I think that I want everyone to understand.
But then again,
that would mean teaching them the words and the phrases
and arduously
painstakingly
instructing correct use of verbs
and nouns
and correcting everyone who does not easily transcribe to this new language.
Instead
I think I will just enjoy the role of a fool.
The idiot that transcribes nothing.
The disabled one that is happy in their own little world
of no consequence.
And enjoy the aloneness for maybe just one more day.
