From Something
Whoever writes about something — about a behaviour, a structure, a pattern — inevitably writes from somewhere. From a position. With an attitude shaped by experience, morality, ethics, by what one has lived through and by what one has become because of it. That is not a weakness of a text. It is its condition. A text without a standpoint is not a text — it is air.
And the fact that this standpoint may disturb someone else, that it may feel wrong because it touches, shifts, or questions their own perspective: that is part of the process. That is how the game works.
Sometimes it sounds like this:
“That’s easy to say from your perspective.”
Or:
“You always hide behind X.”
Sentences that sound like criticism — and perhaps they are. But there is often something else hidden inside them, something that does not fully reveal itself: a complaint that one’s inner world did not arrive intact within someone else. That another person did not know what was never actually said.
I understand that.
I know that feeling.
And yet it is not true.
Inner perspectives cannot be transferred directly. That is not a malfunction, not a failure, not a sign of indifference. It is the fundamental condition of communication itself. Whoever says their perspective was not considered is, consciously or not, directing a reproach at an impossibility.
Mind-reading has not yet been invented.
What remains is language.
Incomplete, necessary, irreplaceable.
The image that comes to mind is this:
If gravity did not exist, I could fly.
That is true.
But it is equally true that without gravity there would be neither me nor anything capable of flying — no atmosphere, no planet, no form that could remain suspended in the air or fall through it. Gravity is not the obstacle. It is the condition under which anything can exist that might fail because of it.
Sad not to be able to fly.
True.
And yet it is a condition for life, not its opposite.
Language functions in a similar way.
It is what limits understanding — and the only means by which understanding becomes possible at all. The complaint about its incompleteness is justified. The conclusion that someone else is therefore to blame does not automatically follow.
It would also be sad not to be fully heard.
That is true as well.
Neither truth changes the conditions under which we are here, speaking to one another — or at least trying to.
What I observe — in others, and increasingly in myself as well — are discussions that serve less as exchanges and more as mechanisms for securing a position. Not asking questions, but reinforcing one’s own viewpoint. Not wanting to hear, but wanting to be heard.
That sounds like an accusation.
It is not.
It is an observation.
And I stand in the middle of it often enough without noticing at the time.
The impulse to secure one’s own interpretation before the other person has finished speaking.
To continue composing the sentence one wants to say while the other is still talking.
That is not a character flaw.
It is a habit.
And habits are old and stubborn and tend to change only through repetition in the opposite direction.
I am learning this now.
Not as a resolution. Not as a programme.
More as an observation that keeps returning and that I am slowly beginning to take seriously.
There was that moment again when I already knew what I wanted to say before I had truly listened.
There was that movement away from the other person and back towards my own formulation.
Not malicious.
Just old.
Slow to change.
Necessary.
Both at once — like almost everything that is worthwhile.
Written on June 8, 2026 at 16:25. © 2026 Whisper7. All rights reserved.