So immersed in language did you become that eventually every word, every utterance became something entirely divine. And then you couldn’t speak at all for fear that you might sully the feeling, deep within, that each piece of language fell not from you, but from the mouth of god itself and – in the final analysis – that there was no difference at all between the two.
But slowly, as you began to live again, to breathe the air of a shared reality, you came to understand that words are not divine in and of themselves. There is nothing inherently godlike about them at all. They only become other in the act of interpretation, which always implies some degree of misinterpretation. And, in fact, it is misinterpretation which makes of words bridges to something more than me and what I mean; which makes of human sound something godly, something worth living and dying for.