What I can’t capture, I must: that which explodes me from the inside out and kills me: the unintelligible (not God). I must “capture”: my end, my love.
You can imagine the despair such desires bring me to: I must love from beyond the grave, and I must begin training for it now.
I imagine someone similarly dispossessed, similarly acquainted with being “outside of time,” finding all my journals in their original state; I imagine them catching on to the horrifying “joke” immediately; I imagine them tearing up and imagining that that tear is me. I see them going on…
Now, the disorganization of this book can only increase. I had dreams of capturing, of organizing, of condensing, but these conventions now sicken me more than ever. The pretension to published works, to the notion of “having a voice,” of contributing, strikes me as a defeat. What I wanted to do was live, not read. Only someone who resembled me could see and share witness to what I see, the source of the urgency within me. What most others perceive as my quirk– my “obsession with death”– strikes me (us?) as the only valid dimension of “study.” (But here again words fail me: how can one study the impossible, the non-phenomenal, the antithesis of all experience? And yet the desire is realer than all objections: I’d like to be, personally, the idea of night behind your sun…)
So, what can I do but go on? Again I return to this torn-in-two part, this point-of-no-return, this dead moment which alone gives my life and my love its meaning. I see this with a limitless clarity that can in no way be captured; it becomes infinite night in the moment of its perfection, the end love. This ageless point returns in every age but isn’t luminous. The glory it bestows upon us– giving human life its sense of preciousness and value, as of immensity and liberty– can only disconcert us (naive interpretations notwithstanding). Everyone stares into this night: it is everyone’s. But the fact that no one makes it out alive is our happiness.
Just now, I’ve never felt so “alone”… but this feeling cannot hold. My being is already lost; and so already somewhere else, communicated, over there, with you, somewhere. Whoever feels lonely only feels their ghost, but no ghost can take prominence. This means that living beings are never alone: they are never their loneliness, their ghost. Which means that, with you (at least), I will always live. To me, that was all that mattered: if I can’t think my way to you from out of my grave, then all my thinking is pointless and my love a shame; but if I can, if I can reach you, we prove what can’t be proven: that profound communication is possible and that there is nothing at all to fear about dying. Simple: if someone else is there, so too are we.
Thinking this way opens upon the worst crimes unless one thinks it in a spirit of friendship, with all the co-dead, co-living beings in our world. Unless one stands at attention for the end love, unless one stands firm in this infinite undecidable. (I want to say, optimistically, “If you can see where I’m coming from, you know where we’re going,” but the truth is, we don’t know. If we could know, we’d lose sight of what was coming. –And yet we can’t even see that: “optimism” fails us in every case. We have no grasp on the unintelligible…)
Let there be no doubt: I’m guilty, ashamed, sorry. My love can’t grow to its full proportions without you; I can’t communicate, can’t clarify my life, can’t capture my love– which means I can’t give any of this to you as it really is, as I would really like to. But just because I can’t doesn’t mean it can’t be done, that it can’t happen. And yet, if it does, it wasn’t because I…
What’s perilous need not be observably so. Taking risks doesn’t mean being a daredevil. It means putting everything at stake without any hope of recovery or of stopping the perilous movement of self-interrogation. Because it can’t be stopped: everyone is finally surrendered to the ultimate peril. The end of the interrogation (death) isn’t an answer: it is the summit of the peril. Thinking this peril through to the end means reaching the unintelligible, where horror and lightness mix, where all is communication. (I take a free breath, light as a child…)
Has there ever been a transmission this subtle, this patient? Immortality stares back, knowing full well: it’s nothing. Still, I’m tempted to say: what I’ve understood about (the) “meaninglessness” (of being, of life) is without rival. And yet I’m barely a stepping stone, a place-marker in a more trans-epochal movement of thought, life, and love– all leading to one and the same peace: abandoned sovereignty. When you overcome me (yourself), I promise: you will be even more “subtle”!
What matters, what’s at stake: experience of freebeing, of an ipseity without borders. Words only take on meaning when absorbed in its (your) metamorphosis. (Death… instantly…)
I sense: there is no time, nothing at all is “left for me.” In this obliteration, what can I do but rejoice? TIME overwhelms me “now,” and will overwhelm me “later”; but being one with ITS movement, I’m absolved, one with the vast, “indifferent” universe. Can I be as beautiful as a supernova? Can I be at one with you?
Finally, I’ve lost all hope in “improvement.” To me, life is one long struggle to lose oneself: sometimes this happens and the resultant disequilibrium is glorious; but inevitably one returns to self-stability and the struggle to get lost recommences. –And yet, it’s a struggle in reverse, a struggle for “acceptance.” In the end, loss itself foils the struggle, renders our pursuit of glory unnecessary. We die effortlessly…
Only one outcome: to throw you back on yourself. I can’t tell you anything, you’re speaking to yourself. There’s a gap in your life, an error in your logic, but I don’t correct anything, I don’t recompense. On the contrary, I admit: we have no choice but to be more torn apart, to become more errant, to fail more spectacularly. No choice but to live effortlessly…
Fruitless cage of death, life, a stupid feat… and yet perfect: at one with a gust of wind…
What could be more dangerous than this? Than a mind thoroughly disabused, doubtful of “betterment,” doubtful of time itself? But this dangerousness is futile; no-one will recognize it. It is only awareness of death (“subtle”), and its only fruit is in being honest with oneself. And what one must be honest about, in each case, lightens and horrifies, alternatively. It means waiting for what will never come, or for what comes instantly, we can’t tell.
But if only I could see, in plain sight, the dead man that I am, that I will (never?) be, wouldn’t everything change dramatically, today? How then would I see the kitchen, the meadow, the mall? What would this “awareness” amount to– being an awareness of that to which I have no access, an awareness of my (present/coming) absence– of nothing? What then of love, my friend?
I suffer from this, this need to give all that I have and am to my beloved, who is frightened to death by my offering and deathly opposed to seeing it through, to ever really letting me in (I who “am” their death). Indeed: to the same extent, I resist myself. That is, I wait. But today, I suffer from the cruelty of my own tenderness, which wants to be seeded freely, but instead makes of me a solitary scion, out here, silent, waiting for my beloved to take to the graft. I’m waiting for both of us: to understand the fatal importance of our experiment, our exchange.
What can I say? Everything changed the day I realized my tears didn’t point anywhere… that, crying, I was anticipating a loss of everything I loved… and that there could never be any sort of recovery. It was this that I took for the truth, in spite of me.
And yet I must say it, what I feel: my love was bigger than all the world… even though there was nowhere to put it… and no use… even though it failed to point anywhere.
“I just wanted to be tender and kind”– a simple tombstone, perhaps, meaning: “I WANTED THE IMPOSSIBLE”– such that what comes after “me”, after this, was, all in all, up to you…