There’s a sentence I say to my wife several times a day … yes, that one too, but that’s not the one I mean 😉
I mean the one that sometimes really gets on her nerves.
I say, “Tell me something.”
Some days, it drives her nuts. She asks what she’s supposed to tell me—there’s nothing new.
Yeah, I know – or at least I know she thinks so. But that’s not what I mean either. When I say “Tell me something,” what I mean is: I want to communicate. Not about anything in particular, not to learn something … but because – well, why, actually?
Why do we have the need to communicate?
A need so strong that, in the absence of someone to talk to, we end up speaking to pets, trees, or our household appliances.
Maybe it has something to do with feeling safe.
Communication creates orientation. People who speak are easier to predict. Language, tone, tempo – all of it helps us assess a situation. Communication makes the world a little less threatening.
In a confusing environment, even a trivial sentence can be an anchor. Speaking brings order – even when what’s said is tangled. And order, imperfect though it may be, provides stability. In a world that so often seems hard to grasp, order is a value.
But safety alone doesn’t explain it.
Behind the desire to communicate lies the need to be seen. People who communicate are often hoping for more than a reaction: for resonance. For the feeling that someone out there isn’t just listening, but understanding. Or at least accepting.
But communication doesn’t just give us safety – it gives us meaning. Or the hope of having meaning. Because when I speak and someone hears me, I’m more than just a thought in my own head. I speak, and someone hears it – which means I’m not a tree falling alone in the forest, not knowing whether anyone hears the sound.
To be seen, understood, maybe even accepted – that’s more than a nice feeling. It’s a basic human need. And sometimes, a single sentence, a glance, a tone of voice is enough.
And even if no one’s listening, communication remains a way to figure out who we are at all. I don’t always speak to be understood – often, I speak to understand myself. To hear what I think.
A thought only becomes tangible when spoken aloud. Maybe that’s how Curly Thoughts came to be – not to give answers, but to give shape to questions that slowly crystallize in the act of speaking.
Sometimes communication serves no clear purpose.
It’s not a tool, but a sign of life. An I-was-here scratched into the wall of the world.
And when that’s no longer possible – when no one speaks, no one listens, no one answers – then things get dangerous.
That’s when we lose orientation, stability, trust. In others, in ourselves, in the world.
That’s why it’s healthier to talk to a cat than to stay silent – even if it doesn’t answer. Or maybe especially because it doesn’t.
Communication is everywhere – not just among humans.
Everywhere, something is being spoken, interpreted, transmitted, received: in colors, scents, sounds, waves, temperature, light, touch – and even in silence.
Communication is not a privilege of language – it’s a way of being in relation.
A bird that sings is communicating. A plant leaning toward the light. Even a bolt of lightning crashing from the sky to the ground could be seen as a kind of dialogue.
Lightning: “Man, why is it so damn cold up here?”
Earth: “Then come on down, you wimp.”
Lightning (slams into a tree): “Who are you calling a wimp?”
That, too, is communication. A little heated, perhaps – but definitely resonant.
Maybe that’s what connects all living things: the constant attempt to be perceived – and to respond to something.
As if something once said to the universe:
“Tell me something.”
And we’re still listening to that story.
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