Imagine that I wish to describe the feeling of smoothing my finger over this clean glass, under running water from my tap. I could say it is similar, but not the same as a clean, dry glass. I could say it is unlike a smeared glass, dry or wet. I could say it is squeaky and bubbly and smooth and clear. I could say it is like a pure note produced by the harmony of the glass, the running water, the sensation in my skin and the context of my mind. But I am always saying it is like some other feeling. Or unlike. I can never describe this feeling without reference to other feelings. I can never perfectly describe this feeling to anyone without this glass, this tap, this finger and this mind. This is the imperfection of language.
Added @ 04:51 PM to Diary category on June 07, 2000