I've never liked learning languages. I know exactly why, too, but perhaps if I feign ignorance you'll be able to see the why and not just the what. Maybe you'll see as me, and not just at me.

In any case, I've never liked it. I've been taking language courses for years, and I learn the material, more or less. The difference is, though, that with languages you never know what is going on. I hear a barrage of strange syllables that don't mean anything (to me, the ego-free, non-Anglo-centric editor chirrups) and am lost. I am awash in a wave which I can struggle against or let wash over me (my usual choice) or let force me down. Usually, I can't control what it does, and without language I can hardly be expected to. To me, nothing exists unless it is in words. When I can't understand the language, it is as if I am in a void, the Greek chaos, where nothing is solid. All I can do is feel the tears of frustration well up.

That's the way it is with my life, now. The world washes over me, and I don't know the language. It makes me want to cry, but I know I cannot. A sign of weakness like that would do nothing but bring on the sharks. I can struggle, and get tired and beaten down, and drown. I can destroy myself, and let a consciousness-less, or physically lifeless, body be swept downstream. I can stand there and wait.

They say no man is an island. In a sense, this is true. We all interact and interrelate. In another way, though, there is nothing more false. Some of us stand there as life washes over us, hearing ourselves erode as we crumble into the primordial ooze that claims all men sooner or later, wishing we had somewhere to struggle to where we would be safe, or that someone could reach down a hand and give us help, and always wishing, in some dark grotto, that we would erode faster, die, and be free.

I don't know if all men are islands. I know I am, and the salt water stings my eyes and the force batters me against my will, I think death is preferable.

When one is afloat, one will reach for anything. "Any port in a storm," as they say. It feels best to have either an ideal or a person.

An ideal will never betray you of its own accord. It may, however, break under your weight. A religious worldview, an unachievable political ideal, these can provide a touchstone or foundation. If you look too long they disappear. If you achieve them, they seem for naught. If you fail to keep them in check, they will destroy -- subvert -- you.

The other option is people. They will always fail you if you expect something from them. They are more real and satisfying a touchstone, though.

You need people, but I don't know why. And I really don't on this one; I'm not feigning ignorance as some kind of literary technique. You need to talk, of course, and you need to be able to at least pretend they listen. You can write or talk to the walls or something, but they don't hear. You have to listen to them talk, or at least pretend to, so you know they are doing the same for you. But that isn't all. I never did like talking on the phone, because that isn't all.

I've talked on the phone my share, of course, as well as writing and talking to walls. I know that doesn't do it, though. When I talk on the phone, it isn't really about anything; it's just small talk. It's a way to pay one's dues so people will be your friend and you can get something from them later. If you talk and listen on the phone, eventually you can talk to them in person, too.

That's where my problem lies. I'm afraid to talk in person. But I'll tell you that later.

Just talking -- even in person -- isn't enough, though. Pretending they hear -- and listen, no less -- isn't enough. Pretending they care -- all this is important, but isn't enough. You need someone to take you seriously. You need someone who will believe what you mean even more than what you say. You need someone who will understand you, hear you, not just your words.

My problem -- one of my problems -- is that no one takes me seriously. No one except my brother. Other people listen, and they laugh at what they figure are my jokes but are really my parables. They hear me develop scenarios or myth cycles and they figure they're funny stories. Except my brother. My girlfriend, my parents, they don't take me seriously. That's because of another of my problems. I don't mean what I say, I mean what I mean. And I don't express it bluntly.

I wonder if that's how Christ felt. He told His parables, and people didn't understand Him. Even the Apostles didn't understand Him. He explained them to the Apostles, and they didn't understand Him.

So, they killed Him.

He was an island.

But we never give up. We start again. We go to Hell, we sulk a couple of days, and we come back. We try again. We go to sheep of another fold, and we tell them stories, make them laugh, and get crushed when they don't understand.