The Language I Don’t Speak

(1)

I wake up inside the mouth of The Language I Don’t Speak.

The Language I Don’t Speak tries to make us take the precepts. While acting like It is speaking to us, It tries to talk to others about us. This experience feels like a sacrifice-offering ceremony but, in fact, it is just one of the many rehearsals. Trying to breathe amounts to nothing. I can see the skeletons of all of our past lives starting to melt under the milky silver tongue filled with the Sense of Humour of The Language I Don’t Speak. This, again, is also Inclusive of us.



(2)

The Howling of The Language I Don’t Speak disguises itself as one of us and lives among us; “A Better Choice” is one of Its many nicknames.

The collective viscera memory of those who have died resisting the sea is glistening like sea salt in the sun. Though nobody seriously spares a thought about it, some can converse with the past, and some swallow the bicycle rims one after another. Some of us are really getting sick of the fishy scent which remains as afterimages of every nail scratch that could not come back, even when it’s time.

The remaining few of us write down the words “The Sun Has Set” on the floor with sharpened stones a hundred times, a thousand times over and over. Some try to prove that the past some people talk about is them.



(3)

The Language I Don’t Speak reads us for fun; and some of us perceive this as the best revenge possible.

But I am not like that. And I can’t be the only one who doesn’t know how to answer the question “But then what are you like?”. Verbs and adjectives fired at us every day and night fell on us each and every time. The burning hunger of an infinite series behind a single decimal point kisses some of us and picks them up. Every adverb is Tuesday for some of us, and a body part for some, maybe more than just one.



(4)

The Language I Don’t Speak comes back from hunting with some trees It has grown.

The people who talk about the past and the people who create the past have daily fights. Every night, some of us still have to entertain The Language I Don’t Speak by wearing the flowers which have bloomed after planting the freshly cut toenails and fingernails, bent and broken, of The Language I Don’t Speak. Wearing the repeated lullaby “Is That All?” which flies into the night like pajamas, some fall asleep in the night. Some of us secretly stay awake to play theatre with hand puppets by controlling familiar skulls.



(5)

The Language I Don’t Speak asks us if we are asleep already. Its Humour Tongue is looking for pieces of answers everywhere. 

Hoping that keeping silent more than usual does not necessarily become one of the many forms of answers but we do not have much choice. With hand gestures, while discussing the varieties of acts in the play which will be performed with some of the skeletons pulled out of the Tongue as far as we could when the morning comes, we remain at seaside.