A paranoid exercise in nonsense

I'm confused. This may not even be a conundrum of emotion but a problem of language. I don’t trust words. If you know what I mean I don’t know what they mean, is what I'm saying. Say one thing, mean another. Take subtext, euphemisms, or hyperbole, for example. Treacherous bastards! Some words are insidious, being held ransom to nuance and qualified language, creating spin and propaganda...Why complicate the matter. We should trim the weight of the English dictionary, tell it to lose some extra poundage. I’m going by what somebody else told me in a mythical chain of learning and perpetual knowledge-sharing, the 'meaning' surreptitiously seeping into my mindset over time through practice and repetition. This meaning is either concurred by others or its erroneous elements are pointed out. And in the event of any dispute, what do you do? Check the dictionary.

But what if the dictionary men were fraudsters, a secret clandestine conspiracy imprisoning us within some structural quagmire, hm? Well that's preposterous, of course, because how could I even communicate this if that were the case? But what if...

What I need to do is create a whole new language for myself, not gobbledegook but something else that sounds quirky. I'll strip it back so much it won't even be a language at all. I'll communicate through baby-gurgles and pointing. My voice will rise and fluctuate according to, not 'anger', but something else. There is no such thing as 'anger' in this new language of mine. On paper it can only be described as UUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, and its sure-sign is a look of worry on my face. No. that can't be right. There's no such thing as 'worry' in my new language either, for I have discarded that word and all its synonyms. Thereafter emotion and mental states can only be scientifically observed through looking at the shape of the eyebrows and the mouth, the holistic expression on the face of the subject. Such things can't be described either, such as the aforementioned eyebrows or the mouth or anything than can be scientifically observed in the ordinary sense of the 'word'. HA!...The word...The whole lexicon of words disintegrates into a cavernous bowl of word-soup, where letters and sentences swirl around and bash aimlessly into one another in the synapses of the brain which is no longer called a brain. You can do what you like with these letters. In fact, make up your own letters which is beyond the remit of this keyboard I'm sad to say. Everything that was once called something is now nameless, no labels, no signposts, no nothing but 'existence' which is not called existence. You know you 'exist' but you can't describe it in terms of 'knowledge', you can't demonstrate anything through lack of labels and a common understanding. You withdraw within yourself, therefore, a champion of the hermetic lifestyle. An ascetic monk. The only thing I know is I know is I know nothing. Who said that, does it matter? External is internal, you implode within yourself like a black hole which is not a black hole. It's a catch-22 in this world, and communication becomes a 'noise' of sorts whose existence whichever way you look at it, is difficult to deceive for you have eyes and you have ears but you can't say for sure because you can't describe anything. That said, become a firm believer in the philosophy of 'keeping it simple', for if you keep it simple one can never go wrong, misunderstanding will be minimised when no words or intentions cross the mysterious pathway between human minds, across the airwaves which are not airwaves. What a world that would be.

...Do you know what I'm saying? ...Do you? ...Well, perhaps I've been looking too much into it. Perhaps I'm a bit mental. What if in actuality what I’m writing right now really does not mean what I thought it meant? My God, the panic of such an idea plunges into my chest, right through my chest plate like an eight inch knife. It is immediate, and threatening, stuck there like a door-stopper. There is something in my mind, I can sense it. It may be an intruder, or a disease. I can't shoo him away with a brush, for he's made it very clear he's here for the long haul. A conscientious objector to my bullshit. My reason. He might leave me some day in old age when I have dementia, the separation between the two of us the annulment of a marriage which spanned generations. But who really knows the score about anything these days. And that is the edgy gospel according to...—what am I? Who am I? Who? What? Where? Horton heard a what? I’m clueless, I’m free, I’m not wise, I’m trapped, I’m bored, I’m satisfied. Ah life! So beautiful and ugly. Is that a paradox or am I just paranoid?