What Language Are You Speaking?

Most of the time, it seems that anybody that I converse with has no idea about what it is that I am saying. And because of this, most of the time I end up having to filter my words into 'street talk', a type of talk that consists of slang and bodily movements in order to make up for true meanings of words that once were.

I do not talk in complex terms. I just talk in terms that are beckoned to be forgotten by the greater public, because the greater public prefers a sense of simplicity in their speech amongst the complexities of every day life. And because of this, people like me are left to pretend to speak in a manner they absolutely loathe - slang. I am so amorous about America because most of the words I have heard coming from American tongue are words that are not spoken here in Australia on an everyday basis - they are words written by the finest Australian scholars, but rarely ever uttered. And that is what irritates me about having to converse with most people. It is the fact that I can converse better when I write because at least the people who read my writing have some form of interest in it, whereas when I speak people have to voluntarily focus that one extra bit, and it is forcibly done so because I can tell that they still have no idea about what I am saying.

I am tired of condensing my speech. I often sit alone in my study and release these words verbally and ravel in them with utter delight, I marvel at the words that I release because I never knew I was capable, but that is because all of this time I have been hiding them from other people, I have also been hiding them from myself. A piece of myself, a big piece of my inner self cannot be contained any more than it already is, yet most of the time I have no option but to leave it that way. My other bodily functions, like my tear ducts, begin to take over sometimes. They too speak words of their own, words that are afraid to come out. But like me talking to myself in the study, they too cannot be contained any longer.

It is a barren world for people with a constantly working intellect. It is cold, and barren, and there is no warmth. I have to make my own warmth, and I do this by writing, reading and drawing. They are the three things that I have that allow me to be myself, and allow me to thrive in a world where I am just me and not the me that everyone else wants me to be. When I am about to lose myself, I turn to these three worlds and they remind me that I am something, that my self worth should not go a day without being mentioned.

I can recall a day earlier this week when I was in the car with two people and they could not believe that I had written eighty-eight consecutive essays in the duration of my holidays. They could not fathom why I would even bother to write, and they could not understand my explanation of my first year thesis piece, about pedagogical third spaces, even when I placed the terms simply. So I dropped all talk of this and I continued on with their bothersome slang language. And they felt comfortable again, and my discomfort continued alongside their comfort. And that is the way that it is with me, my life, and my inner self. That is the way it always will be, I am afraid, because I am yet to be proven otherwise.

I am yearning to find that one build of complexities who can see through my slang and see my own complexities, who will allow our complexities to mingle and therefore enjoy my true company. But I suppose, just like a decent friend, it is too much to ask for.