The Tragedy of Language

I want to write a word, one or two syllables, to speak of everything in the universe. It would perfectly describe how infinite a grocery store felt when you were young, and at the same time the color your father's hair when you realize that you will live on without him someday. It would bring to mind a dusty attic and, just as strongly, an insect buzzing on a hot night.  This word would mean everything and it would be perfect.  As I flip through the dictionary now, I'm only reminded of the inadequacy of our current rations.  We are starving, but this word could be our feast.  

Perhaps I just don't know how to use them properly, these words.  I fumble them out and try to make them into some sort of sense, but all I end up with are reflections in a dirty mirror.  No one knows much about me.  How could they?  My words are blaspheme to my feelings, a failing that, daily, falls from my mouth.  Why even try?

This is why I'm quiet so much.  Not because I have nothing to say, but because I know no language capable of holding even the simplest sensation or thought.  I've tried before, but I don't think she had any real idea what it was like to be out with friends while my grandmother died. Had I known this word I would have spoken it with the impossible density of a dead star and she would have seen.  Without it, how can we really say we know anyone?  The most cherished love letter belongs in the trash when compared to the swell of a heart when it knows it belongs to another.  How do you capture that with a cacophony of letters mashed into words?  Even as I re-read the paragraphs above, my stomach turns.  I know that I (or my words) have failed (again) to show you the depth of this tragedy and the madness it blesses me with.  My new word would have, instantly and without effort.

We need this word.  

I need it.

How else could I ever be known?