Translate You

When you re-read things you wrote, be it diary entries, poetry, stories, essays, you travel back in time.
You visit a younger you.
A you that you immediately recognise. An unspoilt version of you.
Innocence and beauty lost.
But loss makes way for the new. Brings in the change.

Words written in another time, meant for only you perhaps, have a very clear meaning to you, they make perfect sense, they bring back perfect memories of your story, of your past. They are code just for you. You may have written them with the utmost sincerety, they come from the heart - and sometimes that translates and is recognised by others who read your words. Pieces of the mosaic human experience.
Sometimes however, meaning simply does not travel. You are not heard. You cannot be. Because you speak code. You speak the dialect of you no one else may understand.

I just realised that for the first time, first hand.
It is odd. It may even have been blatantly obvious to others yet - what do they say - I was the last to know.
It is odd I say and by that I mean a strange understanding is taking over and changes my perceptions, filters everything, renders pieces of me inaccessible, incommunicable.

My language, my dialect does not suffice. It does not speak to others It does not touch. It is not spoken. It is not heard.