There was a time when words flowed freely as water between people, before the rules were born. Every sentence carried its own heart, every word its own color. But language was wild, and difficult to grasp across the distance.
Then came syntax - not as chains, but as a bridge. It taught us to place words in the right order, to build sentences that held meaning. Subject, verb, object - a dance with steps that anyone could learn.
But here is the secret: Human Syntax is not about the rules. It is about what happens between them.
It is the pause following a crucial word. It is when someone begins a sentence the wrong way, yet says exactly what you needed to hear. It is the laughter breaking a heavy conversation, the tear that speaks louder than a thousand well-phrased arguments.
Human Syntax is the grammar of a hug, the structure of a glance. It is how we bend words to reach one another, how we break the rules to be understood. It is the melody in a voice that says "I am here," even when the words have run out.
The machinery of language is beautiful, but it is in the human imperfections - the stammers, the repetitions, the silences - that life itself resides. There, between the perfect and the real, between the correct and the true, lives Human Syntax.
It is syntax with a heartbeat.
It is grammar that breathes.
It is how we, despite it all, always find our way home to each other through words.