Cela ne veut rien dire.

Something about the French language. I can't stop buying books in French that I am in no way prepared to read. I pick them up flip through them read random sentences. Aloud. Something so natural about reading those sentences. Maybe it's some kind of nostalgia. Being lost in language. Grew into it. Lost. There was always that barrier. A puzzle. It's always there. Even now, in my native country, I feel apart. Distant from its language; inept; closer to that which was acquired than to that into which I was born. Yet I feel it is a good thing. To be able to choose your bounds, to the extent in which you can. English or Spanish; seems the or is what matters. Maybe not mutually exclusive either. Peut-être... peut-être. It was sudden then. Sundered from the sounds that brought me forth, thrown into a sea of incomprehensible voices, a vociferous void. Grew into it. Became part of it. Then, just like that, I wanted to come back. An impulse, maybe. Wanderlust. I was aware that I wanted to do something, and it felt right to come here. Helped my Spanish but deprived me of English in its natural tumultuous state. Just a tacit taste; intangible. So is it water or land? Something about the French language.