The thing about speaking more than one language is, of course, that you don’t speak any. I am lost between two, between three, between not understanding how to express myself and feeling lost in my head. Ancestry got lost long ago; now I speak broken clips of Paiute and two phrases of Spanish.
These are not the languages I mean.
I don’t speak your language, I speak in dreams. Circles are dreams that complete, but I edit them as they go. The lights on the trees symbolize the souls in the people walking past them, they shine the same way. the library in that house is the center, even if they eat in the dining room, and painting is just another way to discover your heart. the thing about ravens is they always mean what they say, and they always mean murder. the thing about books is the words mean more than yours; and the thing about dreaming is it can’t be expressed in reality.
My inability to translate my language into yours stems from my inability to speak yours in the first place. I don’t understand why you dream in a linear line when you could just step off the path, and your definite answers don’t interest me. Follow what you want, the stones will line themselves after you. leather journal. ivy rope. orange camaro. paiute. pushed back hair, walk without it. climb.
if you would just dream, you would understand.
but I don’t speak your language, and I’ve spent so much time trying to translate mine for you that I can’t remember what I’m supposed to sound like. i can’t remember myself, and that’s the worst of it all.