Once upon a time, in a land of exile,... the loneliness at times sets in; a time where one's language feels so far away that even the thoughts can't seem to come at all - not in one's maternal tongue, neither in the second language. It's like being in between - on the fence - not totally part of one, or the other. Not taking sides, but never belonging either.
Those times, the winter feels long - like a white plain in a cold sun, the snow reflecting painfully the light; one only wants to take cover, out of sight - a safe refuge.
Those times, one longs for one's own tongue - one's mother's tongue.
Not that living / thinking / speaking in a second language is really the worst medicine. It's more the impossibility of being really oneself that leaves an after taste, when exposed for extended periods of time.
Once, a long time ago, I thought "I want[ed] to be a glass teacup where you can see what you drinks. I want[ed] transparency."
Only in safety can one long for transparency; the impossibility of being genuinely oneself sets in when living in a strange world. When in a vulnerable universe, one can only barricade behind the wide walls of translation, can only pretend, and never ever getting any closer than the distorting glass window.
No comments:
Post a Comment