By writing about love, or even merely thinking about it, am I not already translating it into something else, into a concept? It might seem paradoxical to write about what is lost through writing. But maybe if we keep acknowledging what is forever inscribed between the lines, we can gain something from feeling / experiencing before – or rather beyond – thinking. Perhaps we can allow the untranslatable to rest in the gloom of the not-yet-comprehended. We might even have to.
By writing about love, or even merely thinking about it, am I not already translating it into something else, into a concept? It might seem paradoxical to write about what is lost through writing. But maybe if we keep acknowledging what is forever inscribed between the lines, we can gain something from feeling / experiencing before – or rather beyond – thinking. Perhaps we can allow the untranslatable to rest in the gloom of the not-yet-comprehended. We might even have to.