Have you people even encountered a situation where, no matter how you try to describe something, it doesn’t feel accurate? Like, for example, you’re having a feeling but you can’t explain how it feels, no matter what words or language you use?
Yeah, fair. I guess it happens mainly when I can’t (or am too scared to) put it into words, even though I know what the thought or feeling is? It’s not usually scenarios in books, I’m talking more about philosophical shit.
We do, sometimes. Although it’s more the fear of no one else being able to help us if we understand what we are experiencing. So maybe, it’s… something else.
Oh, that’s normal, and I often don’t fight the unspeakable, too much. Southernized witticisms helps.
The smell of death is a normal course of decay, but it shouldn’t come from cooking pork, but what I smelled when cooking while pregnant with my second child was living death, a funk so malevolent it should clear a building, but it was only for me. (And thus, I cannot get closer than this.) But it’s sufficient.
What I write more about, that permeates my writing, is “The Great Empty” or “Loss”, the angles of which you cannot find yourself within a crowded room. That sense of losing belonging, not going back, needing a long-dead parent isn’t something that really distills to this paragraph, either.
But what I have is the bare-bones shape, the relation that allows people to see their own emptiness in, things like that.