Final Chapter – Translation as an Act of Love
That if I studied enough, looked long enough, loved hard enough—
I could carry every word across the river intact.
That the moonlight would still shimmer.
That the silence would still ache.
But now I know:
Translation is not about perfection.
It’s about care.
It is the act of holding something so fragile it might dissolve in your hands,
and still choosing to carry it.
Knowing it will change.
Knowing it will lose something.
And still believing it’s worth it.
Each language carries a version of myself.
In Chinese, I am quiet, interior, full of shadows and calligraphy.
I think in absence. I ache in scenery. I never say "I love you"—but I dream it into the moon.
In English, I am articulate, observant, a little guarded.
I make sense of my pain. I explain myself before I’m understood.
I say “I’m fine” when I’m not, but the syntax is correct.
In Japanese, I walk softly. I disappear in indirectness.
I speak in mist. I long without expecting.
I hold heartbreak like it’s a porcelain bowl that still has warmth.
In French, I slow down. I write in silk.
I allow melancholy to become aesthetic.
Even sadness wears perfume.
And yet—none of them say everything.
So I write.
Between the lines. Between the tongues.
I translate not to explain myself, but to remember I still feel.
Because translation, in the end, is not about fidelity.
It is about intimacy.
To translate is to trust someone enough to show them the shape of your feelings—
even when the words are wrong.
To translate is to say:
“This is not what I said.
But this is what I meant.”
And maybe that’s what love is, too.