Words are Futile Devices

“Words are futile devices.”

When Sufjan Stevens sings that line in Futile Devices, it doesn’t sound that over the top when you ponder upon it. Rather, it sounds tired—as if someone who has thought through every possible phrasing and still decided none of them will land.

It’s not that language is useless. It’s that language, at certain moments, simply becomes inadequate.

That song is one of my all-time favourites of Sufjan’s, tied with Fourth of July. Carrie & Lowell got me through very tough times and listening to their 10th Anniversary vinyl that I bought recently was a much-needed catharsis. But this particular line in the song has got me thinking a lot lately.

Not because I believe words are useless. Let’s not jump to rash conclusions now, this (probably fictional) scene from The Crown alone makes it clear how much hinges on choosing the right words.

Instead, I lean too heavily on them—be it through blog posts, long captions, carefully constructed messages drafted and redrafted (and sometimes shamefully rephrased by ChatGPT) before they’re ever sent to the recipient.

I tell people I don’t take things personally or it’s not always that deep, but in reality I contradict myself. I believe in articulation. I’m a staunch believer in eloquence. I still have faith in clarity.

But there are moments when language is akin to using a scalpel to perform open-heart surgery. Precise, sharp and technical and yet still terribly insufficient for the scale of what needs to be done. Sometimes, no matter how Shakespearean I can be, I no longer feel any satisfaction in expressing myself to anyone.

It’s been 3 years since I last went to therapy, and I honestly miss those days. I still remember how my therapist described me: hyper-aware, yet blissfully unaware of my own emotional needs. Highly articulate about everything except the act of fully acknowledging what I feel without immediately analysing it.

That hyper-awareness didn’t come from nowhere. My mom didn’t take any supplements so I’d emerge out of her womb pre-packaged with it. It was debate rooms, public speaking; spaces where you had to justify your thoughts before someone else dismantled them. That’s where you learn to arrange and sharpen your words with care.

You learn to defend yourself before you’re even attacked. You learn to package your emotions so they’re easier for others to digest.

And it worked. For years, writing was my solace. If I could articulate it well enough, I’ll feel better.

But now, even when I do everything “right”, even when I express myself clearly and calmly, I still walk away feeling unsatisfied. Not misunderstood, exactly. Just… for the lack of a better word, unreached.

Because the issue isn’t vocabulary. It’s reception.

You can explain your heart perfectly and still feel like it didn’t reach anyone. You can lay everything out and still feel alone after. And that’s the part I’m struggling with lately.

For years, I’ve found comfort in writing. It made me feel seen, even if the audience was small or non-existent. Once in a while, I’d share parts of my writing to my 20-something followers on Instagram. If I feel daring enough, I even use the same writings as captions for my photographs.

But now, even as I’m writing this, there’s a part of me that wonders what even is the point since I walk away from stripping myself bare while still feeling strangely hollow.

I don’t think words have failed me. I don’t conclude that words are futile devices. Instead, I think I’ve reached the limit of what they can do alone.

So when I say writing feels futile lately, it isn’t because language is weak. It’s because I’m starting to realise that expression without reception is just a monologue. And monologues, no matter how eloquent, is just echo.

I don’t know if this is a phase. I don’t know if I’m simply tired. I don’t know if the solution is to speak less, feel more, be non-chalant or finally allow myself to experience something without immediately translating it into prose.

All I know is that for the first time in a long time, writing no longer feels like relief. And that realization, more than any sentence I can construct, is what feels the most unsettling of all.

If I can’t write myself into relief, where do I go next?