I am a writer. Words are my life, the body of my thoughts, the keys to my world. I believe that language is not just a tool—it is a mirror. It reflects who we are, what we feel, and how we think. Language is the imprint of the soul. And if that’s true, then I can’t help but wonder: what does our language say about us today?
It’s not change itself that worries me. I know language evolves—it always has. Every era has its own turns of phrase, its own slang, its own linguistic quirks. That’s natural. But what I see now isn’t just change; it’s erosion. A slow, steady fading of richness, of nuance, of depth. We are speaking with fewer words, expressing fewer thoughts.
Communication has become faster, but also emptier. Abbreviations, emojis, and half-sentences have replaced the art of precise expression. Subtleties are disappearing. The fine distinctions between anger and disappointment, between joy and contentment, between fear and anxiety—they are all dissolving into a handful of overused, generic words: good, bad, weird, cringe. And if our language becomes flatter, duller, less refined—do we, too, become the same?
But what troubles me even more is the coarsening of language. Vulgarity, crude speech, words once reserved for moments of intense emotion are now the default. Profanity isn’t just occasional frustration—it’s the foundation of casual conversation. We are no longer “exhausted”; we are “fing dead.” We are no longer “frustrated”; we are “losing our s.” This is how we talk, how we think, how we interact. And if our words are this raw, this stripped of subtlety—what does that make us?
Elegance, precision, and refinement are becoming rare. Speak with eloquence today, and you are met with raised eyebrows. It’s outdated, unnecessary, pretentious. As if depth in language is no longer an asset, but an inconvenience. But I refuse to believe that words don’t matter. Language shapes thought. Someone who speaks with care, thinks with care. Someone who knows how to articulate emotions, understands themselves and others more deeply.
Perhaps it is foolish to think we can turn this tide. But I still believe that as long as there are those who cherish language, who refuse to reduce their thoughts to three-word sentences and a crying-laughing emoji, there is hope.
As a writer, my way of resisting is to keep believing in the power of words. To hold onto precision, to defend nuance, to keep writing as if language still matters—because it does. Words carry weight. And as long as they do, the mirror of the soul will not be completely shattered.