It’s very strange, to think in different language than I speak.
The brain transfers the eloquence to the fingers to articulate, the mouth too slow perhaps or poorly formed. The tongue too thick? Or stolen by the cat? This problem has been a lifelong one, compounded now by poetics that twist thoughts into metaphors unspeakable in daily conversation. Cars are dragons, the earth a hungry mouth, and rocks can walk and talk.
But only in the mind. And then too, of course, only capable of being shared in written form.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology