Lost in Translation

Ah, how the sands of time have slipped through my fingers! 

It feels like an eternity since I last opened the gates of my imagination, allowing my thought wagon to gallop freely across the vast expanse of ideas swirling within my mind. It has truly been a long, meandering journey.

I find myself... well, a little lost.

You see, there’s a curious tendency in our world to glorify structure over the raw beauty of ideas themselves—the very heartbeat of existence. Why is it that a thought, stripped to its essence, often feels inadequate? Like a diamond in the rough, a pure idea is often dulled by the heavy cloak of jargon, weighed down by pompous words that serve only to dress it up in a masquerade of formality. We edit and re-edit, typing and erasing like sculptors chipping away at marble, but somewhere along the way, that vibrant spark of creativity dims.

We treat our ideas like cherished friends, adorning them in their Sunday best. It’s as if they must don the finest fabric of vocabulary, embellished with idioms and perfumed with metaphors. Why has simplicity become a taboo? Have we shackled our imaginations to the gilded cage of societal expectations?

The pinnacle of superficiality is reached when we feel compelled to beautify our thoughts, to masquerade them in an artifice of language. It’s one thing to nurture our ideas, allowing them to blossom like wildflowers in spring, but entirely another to merely slap a coat of polish on them with a thesaurus. It’s akin to cosmetic surgery; we enhance and embellish until all that remains is a hollow shell—gorgeous on the surface, yet vacant and lifeless beneath. The authenticity fades, leaving only a façade, shimmering yet devoid of substance.

Thus, even our wildest fantasies become ensnared by what we believe is acceptable to society. Our minds, like tightly bound books, are restricted to the narrow margins of reality. Our insecurities, deeply rooted in the soil of our thoughts, cast long shadows over our creativity. We may chant that personality triumphs over beauty, but alas, we often forget the truth: we prioritize the aesthetics of an idea until the soul behind it is all but hidden, stifled in silence.

This, dear reader, is the very reason I have strayed from my greatest passion—writing. I’ve abandoned the joy that once flowed through my fingertips, shackled by the fear of judgment. My mind became a prisoner to the mantra of “Best or Nothing,” leading me to sacrifice my joy rather than face a whisper of criticism, or perhaps a roar.

But enough is enough. The clock has ticked far too long, and I cannot continue this way.

Today, I choose to write straight from my heart. I pour out my soul because it is pure and untainted by the murky waters of doubt and societal standards. I write from my heart because words are the nourishment my spirit craves, and writing is the lifeblood of my happiness. This is my declaration: when I write from my heart, my ideas won’t be lost in translation. In this rawness lies a kind of simplicity that, to me, embodies the ultimate sophistication.

So perhaps my thoughts are dressed in torn sweatpants and mismatched slippers. But who cares? I feel at home in this comfort. As long as my message resonates, nothing else matters.