A Note on Languages
Linas JuozenasShare
Traps, and a Possible Bridge
Diary page — the day I started noticing how words can be made to bend people.
While thinking about languages, I realized something simple and heavy: we probably need a kind of joining language — a bridge language — something universal enough to connect without turning into chaos.
For a long time I assumed that bridge was English. But lately I’ve felt how easily a language can be sharpened and used for manipulation — not only by people, but by the way meanings are allowed to slide in text.
The little traps I started noticing
- Is it a soldier wearing camouflage… or someone soldering a board full of microchips?
- Is it iron — the metal in the ground and furnaces… or ironing clothes to look “presentable,” like a role someone is forced into?
- Is it steel — strong, polished, and forged under pressure… or stealing — taking what someone else built, bought, carried, or needed to survive?
- And is it a liar… or a lawyer — someone who knows how to dress a lie in formal words until it starts looking legal?
Same sound. Different reality. And sometimes the confusion isn’t accidental.
The same traps disappear in Lithuanian
In Lithuanian, these confusing English echoes separate completely. The words do not look the same, do not sound the same, and do not carry the same visual image in the mind.
-
Soldier → kareivis / karys
Soldering → litavimas -
Iron → geležis
Ironing → lyginimas -
Steel → plienas
Stealing → vogimas -
Liar → melagis
Lawyer → advokatas / teisininkas
Different image. Different sound. Different written form. No visual or phonetic connection. The confusion that exists in English simply does not appear in the same way here.
After that realization, part of me wanted to throw the whole thought into the bin and walk away. But this is the language I use most. We have what we have, and we still have to speak: naming things, asking for help, defending ourselves, building friendships, building futures.
Then I started thinking about other languages and noticed something else: some languages (or at least some ways of using them) feel like they’re built partly to defend against outsiders — like a wall made of grammar, slang, and hidden meanings. It’s clever… and also a little tragic when what we need most is connection.
The sadness behind “defensive” languages
When I realized that some languages are shaped mainly to defend against other languages, I didn’t feel angry — I felt sad. Because a language doesn’t only protect borders; it also forms the people inside it.
It shapes the body in small invisible ways: how the throat moves, how the jaw rests, how breath becomes rhythm. The vibration changes — and with it the emotional tone of speaking, the tempo of thought, the default shape of attention.
Over time it can even reshape the felt reality of a place: what feels normal to say, what feels risky to say, and what never becomes sayable at all. A defensive language can become a defensive life.
(This is a personal observation — metaphor and pattern recognition — not a scientific claim.)
So what do we choose?
I love how Chinese and Korean look. Even when I don’t know a word, I can feel the design — the logic — the way the system holds itself together.
And still, the first language I reached for was Japanese. It’s beautiful. Multiple scripts — like different instruments playing in one orchestra.
But I know this is also personal desire: the wish to connect, to learn something beautiful, to open a new door in my mind. That isn’t the same as a universal bridge. A bridge language shouldn’t belong to one tribe emotionally — it should feel like open ground, like public air.
And then… I thought about Lithuanian
Lithuanian is complex in a wild way — but also flexible. We can create words and meanings on the fly and people still catch the point. The alphabet is straightforward, the pronunciation is surprisingly clean, and the language can carry a lot of information without collapsing.
Sometimes you can encode a whole idea — even a whole country and what it stands for — into a single name. And honestly… I love how it sounds. I love hearing it.
There’s also a strange rumor I can’t forget: I once saw someone claim they could “read Lithuanian” in the pyramids — not literally the same letters, but a familiar logic wearing different symbols. I don’t know what to believe about that, and I’m not trying to sell it as truth. But the idea itself sticks to the mind.
For now, I’m keeping my mind open. I’m watching words more carefully. And I’m still looking for a language that connects people without quietly turning into a leash.