Some words don't need translation — they are born as entire weather systems inside a soul.
In Portuguese, there’s saudade. They say it means “to miss,” but it doesn’t. Not really. Saudade is the ache of remembering something beautiful that may never return — a person, a place, a version of you that only existed once. It's missing someone and being grateful they existed, all at once.
In Japanese, there's wabi-sabi — the acceptance of imperfection. It’s when you look at a cracked teacup and see it not as broken but as beautiful because it has survived. It’s loving something not despite its flaws but because of them. And when I think of that, I think of the people I love — the ones who stayed, even when they were chipped.
In Georgian, there’s shenishvna. You say it when someone offends you, steps on your pride, and you forgive them with grace, not vengeance. You say it with your whole heart — and in that forgiveness, you rise above the wound. You reclaim your peace.
But then… there are words that don’t even exist.
Like the feeling of sitting in silence with someone you trust so much, that silence becomes its own kind of language.
Or the way your chest feels right before you say “I love you” and mean it for the first time.
Or how a certain smell — coffee, wet grass, the perfume your mother wore — can time travel you instantly to another decade.
I don’t know how to translate that. But I know we all feel it.
Maybe that's what PureText is really about — not essays, not code, not AI.
Maybe it's a museum of those feelings that never learned how to speak, but stayed anyway.
So if you’re reading this, and you’ve ever felt something you couldn’t name —
welcome home.