By Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm
Language is a gateway into another sphere, you are the unexpected time traveller. You find yourself in the minds of strangers, you succumb to someone else’s heartache, you’re lost in the memories of someone else’s tumulus of pain.
I have become an unexpected gateway of the vernacular, via the force of my curiosity I am now at the precipice of worlds, I am more a medium than a voice.
The intangible barbwire of the vernacular may perhaps constrain the movement of those who are dear to me, but by their audacity and courage, by an imagination the making of the cosmos, their words bleeding crimson through the steely thorns.
Those who are free forget why they are free, the cost of their liberty is buried in self-pity. The idea of lewdness in the vernacular is an impossibility, words are innocent, oblivious. Ill intent is the mark of the Man.