Gap | gina laventura

Dieser Beitrag ist auch auf Deutsch verfügbar

I write for you. About you.
I don’t write you.
I translate you. Into a format that I understand.
But like in all translations of great works, something might, or surely does get lost. Because the words do not suffice. Freedom of interpretation.
So I have to learn your language in order to get close to the root of this masterpiece. But like it is with a newly learnt language that is not your own, there will always remain these parts that one does not understand completely, that bear no equivalent.
So you have to learn my language in order to reciprocate me. But like it is with a newly learnt language, there will always remain these parts that cannot be expressed the way they could be in your very own language.
They will always be there, these gaps that remain unfilled, these moments that cannot be translated completely, the doors that stay locked or can only be opened not more than an inch, the rooms that one can only vaguely perceive through the keyhole.
And probably that is good.
I don’t write you. I read a foreign language.
We don’t write each other. We read.
With gaps.

And while I am writing these lines, coffee and ink drop out of my pen onto the blank paper like blood.