UPTOWN OBSERVER, August 11, 1982
Words, they say, are the building blocks of thought. They are how we communicate, how we express our desires, our fears, our yearning for meaning in an otherwise confounding existence. But are they really necessary? Or are they simply the noise we make while waiting for something important to happen?
First, let’s consider the fact that words are, in essence, nothing more than sounds—sounds we’ve all agreed mean something. But who agreed, exactly? Did a group of proto-humans sit around a fire one day and decide, once and for all, that “apple” meant that red, crunchy thing? And if so, why wasn’t I invited to this meeting? Because if I had been, I would have asked a few questions, like, “What if I want to call it something else?” or “Why does it matter at all, as long as everyone gets what I mean?”
Words, as we know them, are imperfect carriers of meaning. For example, take the word “love.” It’s a tiny, four-letter package that’s supposed to capture an entire spectrum of emotions, from the way you feel about a favorite snack to the way you feel about a lifelong partner. We toss this word around as if it means the same thing to everyone, but does it? Does my “love” mean the same thing as your “love”? Or are we simply throwing sounds at each other, hoping they’ll stick in the right places?
Then there’s the matter of words changing meaning over time. “Awful,” once used to describe something that inspired awe, now means something dreadful. “Nice,” which once meant foolish, has become a compliment. So if words can’t even hold onto their own definitions, why should we trust them to hold any lasting significance? The idea that words are static and dependable is itself an illusion, yet we cling to them as if they’re pillars of truth, rather than hastily built rafts barely floating in the sea of our own misunderstandings.
And what about words that mean absolutely nothing? Words like “whatever” or “meh.” These are sounds we make when we can’t be bothered to articulate an actual thought. Entire conversations, even relationships, are built on these placeholders for ideas that never actually arrive. I’ve often wondered if this is what the universe is made of: not atoms or energy, but the vague, formless words we use to fill the gaps in our comprehension. If a tree falls in the forest and nobody says “tree,” did it fall at all?
So, you might ask, if words are so flawed, why do we use them? And the answer is simple: we have nothing else. Words are the best tool we have to convey something that, ultimately, can’t really be conveyed. They’re the flimsy bridge we construct over the chasm of mutual incomprehension. And perhaps that’s enough, or perhaps it’s not. Who’s to say? I could say more, but then I’d just be using more words, which is the very thing I’m now questioning.
In the end, words might not matter at all, or they might be the only thing that does. If words don’t matter, then my writing this was pointless. But if they do, then I’ve somehow just made a convincing argument for why they don’t. So, where does that leave us? Somewhere between nothing and everything, which I suspect is precisely where we were when we started. And if all of that made sense, then I’ve completely failed in my attempt to convey why it doesn’t.