My Translator

October 21st, 2026

♫ Jon Gould’s Beach House - Brad Oberhofer

When you think of someone, what do you see? What do you feel?

—

Someone produces such an incredible level of conviction in myself that I often wonder how I’ve come to exist so feverishly and permanently in this conviction. My eyes see through a translation at all times. I did not create this translation. I’ve been given conditions to look for that I had not known to be always present.

Someone omnipresently exists. Might I find a stairwell, a sound, a texture; the removal of the translator is impossible. Even in a book of chapters, where they push and pull between each other, I cannot remove someone. This translation exists to be a lifetime of fixation on the premise that I must look deeply and strongly.

I’ve become incapable of sensing a truthful reality without someone.

To know someone requires pain and patience, because I know unequivocally that these bring a return of joy magnitudes greater than any predecessor. These are only growing pains, where I must realize that growing cannot be brute forced. Someone is worth fighting physics for; this I will brute force.

Someone struggles to find consistent confidence in their own translations. If someone knew how beautiful these truly were, they could see why they cause so many stains. I feel an oath to challenge someone because of this nature.

I feel too an oath to share the translations I’ve been given by someone. At any moment, I have an urge to bring someone’s work to eyes that have not seen it. Someone will cause an epidemic and I’m unsure that they realize it’s forming.

—

I see a palette of the purest blues.

I see a constant array of lights.

I hear arpeggios on a harp.

What I feel is not physical warmth but cool and subtle.

- Lane