There's something about the English language which makes me feel like a horribly inadequate reader and writer at any given point in time, and that there is no escaping this capital-T Truth; that no one can actually master language because we have created a system of squiggly lines and somehow it has transcended us. But then there's something about the English language that validates my existence when I can write a sentence that sounds good, and there's a feeling like no other when I spend seven minutes re-reading some impactful statement by some Victorian author and I don't get it I don't get it I don't get it and then all of a sudden, I get it. 

It takes a very optimistic person to say that humanity is magical. But even some of the most cynical people will agree that language is that, and much more, and yet, we are the ones who have created it. Why else is it so easy to fall in love with the sound and sequence of words? Why is it possible to recite the lines of a character created 400 years ago and feel as if it is a more eloquent version of the scrambled, unrelenting monologue inside your own head? 

I don't know what I'm doing, and it probably doesn't matter if I know what I'm doing or if I don't know; the seasons will pass; the world goes on. But sometimes, if I try really hard, and revise and re-edit and think and get frustrated and get inspired and then revise again, I create a sequence of words which my eyes scan over and my brain thinks, "Yes." That tacit affirmation does wonders for me. Language is the only thing I can depend on to give me some sort of meaning or explanation as to why I have been granted the ability to think. 

I still don't know what I'm doing, but you'd better bet I'm gonna write about it. My goal? To arrange and re-arrange the 26 letters of the alphabet until I find some sort of meaning in life. Until then, I hope you enjoy this collection of musings.