Words are cages disguised as bridges.

They promise to carry truth but deliver only shadows, pale echoes of what cannot be spoken.

You've spent years collecting them like treasures, building towers of meaning that crumble at the first touch of actual experience.

A mother's love isn't the word "love."

The weight of grief isn't captured by "sadness."

The moment you truly see a sunset isn't found in any description of beauty.

Words slice the seamless whole into fragments, then convince you the fragments are real.

They make you choose: this or that, right or wrong, me or you. But life knows no such divisions.

The deepest truths live in the spaces between words—in the pause before you speak, in the silence after understanding arrives.

What you seek was never hiding in explanations. It was always here, wordless and whole, waiting for you to stop talking and start being.

One day you'll set down every word you've ever carried. You'll walk naked into the mystery with nothing to explain, nothing to defend.

There, where language dissolves into vastness, you'll finally meet what was never separate from you.

Until then, goodbye.