Talking our way into the complicated process of meaning

SOMETHING'S been bugging me. It's something we do every day, a lot. And it still baffles me. Talking.

How weird is it?

It's such a strange activity, yet we all take it for granted as completely normal.

It's one of the weirdest things I've ever come across. Seriously, the whole process is absolutely mind-boggling.

We make vibrations in our throats, echoing across our vocal chords, then shape them with our mouths and words come out.

Now that is probably completely wrong but that's my understanding of it. And it intrigues me to no end.

I suffer from verbal diarrhea. I talk constantly, and most of it is complete shit. And 98% of it is sarcastic.

But how glorious is the act of talking?! It's such a strange concept, but nobody thinks twice about it. 

Just saying words out loud to yourself is bizarre.

Try it. It's insane! Like actually insane, you are insane, you're talking to yourself, stop it!

Water.

What the hell does that even mean? Where did we come up with that word? Honestly, what if water had been called fire and fire had been called water?

We'd have to fight waters with fire.

Mind-blowing.

We think our language is perfectly normal, we think that other languages are difficult or strange. Have you ever dissected a sentence you just spoke?

Even that one I've just written. What does dissect mean?

Where did we hatch that word, and decide yes, this will mean to methodically cut or pull apart.

Words are incredible - the whole process is sheer insanity.

Shakespeare is lauded as one of the finest wordsmiths of all time, but did he ever once think about what the hell he was actually doing?

Where art thou? Seriously mate, what were you playing at?

Did old Willy ever sit down and actually ponder the process of conversation, of forming words and meanings?

I never bought into the old Bill Shakespeare crap. Sure mate, there's a fight between two families with young lovers on both sides - sounds eerily similar to storylines of Home and Away, which, like Shakespeare, also makes me want to cut my fingers off with a butter knife.

I like to think dogs sit there barking to each other, telling each other how absolutely batshit crazy we humans are, with our extravagantly flamboyant turns of phrase for the simplest of objects.

Hell, I know I am.

This is all too much for me. Time to go into a dark room and speak random words, like trapeze, foil and preposterous and see if I can unravel this one true mystery that is words.

Question of the Fortnight:

Would you rather live as a bubble and you would never pop, or live in a bubble but if the bubble popped, you would die?