Translating has no definition



So I wonder what translating is I wonder because finding a definition has never been so difficult.
Translate is a feeling we cannot capture, and is no longer a question of understanding but thinking another language, another history, other abstractions.
I wonder how it is possible to translate
Because, yes, we can all copy our untranslated words in a translator, and then arrange
But the text is exceeded
There is no question of language anymore
There is no question of language anymore
Can you feel it?
Can you feel that, at least with the surface of your fingerprints?
We can feel, as a stranger, there is something else.
Behind, deep.
That we cannot grasp. We have to live here, we must live the foreign thought, we need the relativity. Feel. With the body and the spoken and heard words.
We should be in contact.
I don’t have the ability to speak in English, but perhaps with these basic translations taking place in my mind, that I then note, will you feel the thought at least, how a form of thinking can be built in my language.
Perhaps, instead of understanding me, is it possible to understand the structure a bit, how I organize my abstraction.
Can the limpid clarity of a translation only take place in materiality?
I mean a cat is a cat or a chat or a gato.
Is the international built on these delimited objects certainties?
Surely not, then should we just let do the perfect bilinguals, are there other ways to embrace the elaboration?
How, how understand the framework of the scaffolding.