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Confessions: Impossible Thoughts and the Margins of Love

Today, I will share some of my personal journal entries written from 2015 to 2018. I tried to reproduce some of my handwriting into this post as close to the original as possible. Each entry / fragment is separated by asterisks and are intentionally placed out of chronological order. All of them carries many philosophical allusions and are inspired by real events. In this post, you are no longer reading my usual intellectual musings. You are engaged with my analysis of personal affairs that were written true to my heart. This post has been sitting around as a blog draft for the past 10 months. I am sharing these because I most likely won’t have time to write anything new for a while due to a busy schedule, and a much needed break.

Throughout my endeavors in philosophy, my intentions weren’t always directed towards the pursue for truth, but for my love of everything around me. Despite my lack of expressiveness, love is the driving force in everything that I do in my life. I am fascinated by how the world works, including why I think or feel the way I do. Love has been one of the few experiences that continues to intrigue me, since I cannot seem to completely understand it. As a person, I am often seen as aloof, unsympathetic, and emotionally resilient, even when I feel much deeper than what most people expect. There are days where I cannot control these feelings. On these rare days, I bare the weight of the universe, where I confront the abounding despair of my emotions, unfathomably, and uncontrollably. These small pieces of writings are not only the shadows of my feelings, they are what I believe as love’s impossibility to be defined, written or spoken. Thus, the exigency of history is called upon me. Through time, its impossibility must be written. As I utter what was once, and still so close to me; recalling its temporal movements by interrupting, and reaffirm it. Behold my weirdness, and enjoy my endless ramblings, confessions, and musings on love and time.


There are infinite arrangements of time that multiplies, ruptures and wounds us through its repetition. I can recall a specific time into the now, the here as I write, where the past and present over determines each other to create the future. I can even recall someone who lives far away in the corners of my mind and hold them close by. This nearness of the distance always re-transfigures itself into this text as future tense. To live in the contemporary is to live in the past of the future, and in the future of the past. Every fragment of time is infinite, every moment is forever.

* * *

My love for philosophy began with my love for loving, and my contradictions of loving the other. What motivates this text comes from my interrogation of my love for you, my love. You are reborn as someone who I must not name except through translation. After having been written, repeated, transformed, and uttered to infinity, it is this repetition that turns you into a phantom who constitutes my worldliness, and my encounter of the impossible. 

* * *

Love by itself is inconceivable. It is not an object that can be found, nor does it arrive before us. Love never arrives at its destination because it is the movement of the human heart which pulses through time.

* * *

Saying “I love you” is not enough because language is never enough. In love, one must resign themselves from language and surrender to the other.

* * *

The greatest forms of art begins with a crime—a trauma that the artist endures in their life which cannot be experienced by anyone but themselves. Art becomes a worldly expression of this impenetrable experience. They are the scars of our greatest sufferings.

* * *

We cannot speak of the One without splitting it into two.

* * *

I had on several occasions, wrote vanishing letters that had never been read by anyone. I took to calling them love letters because it was where I profoundly confessed to my future self. […]

* * *

The most difficult and unconditional task: to love those who despises us, those who hurts us and hurls us into the abyss. […]

* * *

x2, xx, xxxx—in the Margins.
The older I get, the more I can see my own fate. But there always comes a time when I must defy it with all my strength—to escape my own destiny only so I can walk towards it. […]

* * *

The heart knows no eyes. Can we allow ourselves to believe in the frivolity of love at first sight? Love is blind, they say. We hear this from Shakespeare all the way to Nietzsche and Sartre. In love, the essence of sight does not consist of you, but that of blindness. It is not the sight of you that I love, but the love you embody which I love. What our sight does not see is that, love is blind.

* * *

[…] I cannot sleep. Even in my dreams, I remain awake.

* * *

10, xx, 201x —In the Margins-
I want to tell you so, so much! Yet nothing speaks, nothing writes. Stunned in time, lost in space. I know you, I do not know you. There is only you in the world—everything else is secondary. —I missed you—dearly. […]

* * *

There is no philosophy here, only the vanishing thoughts of a young man. […]

* * *

Sometimes, our heart falls so fast, its own destruction becomes impossible. If only it would hit the ground, all our sufferings would shatter and cease to exist. As it turns out, there is no bottom to the abyss, and it is this endless fall that either hurts us most, or gives us the momentum to move forward. When one falls, one falls forever. —This is the gravity of love.

* * *

Love is the madness amongst the impossible because love is the impossible.
—Impossible to write, impossible to speak, impossible to be impossible.

* * *

The worst of all confusions: am I staring at you or at infinity? Certainly, I would like to think I am staring at you and not through you. From this distance, I cannot tell if you are reflecting my gaze, or letting me look past you as if you were an invisible force subliming mine. Perhaps this is where the problem lies, for I am only a finite being—and you, you are my infinity. […]

* * *

11, xx, 201x—In the Marg..
Another confession: Whenever I appear to be paying attention to my work at hand, and time is passing by faster than I can measure, it is the opposite that happens. I try to bore myself just to make time pass by slower. I do this so I can look at you for a fraction longer. […]

* * *

Have you ever longed to set up your own trap just so you can unknowingly fall into it, and lead your heart astray? This is seduction at its highest order. […]

* * *

The ambiguity of ignorance is that ignorance does not know itself. He who is ignorant will ignore ignorance. Therefore, the ignorant man will never know that he is the most ignorant of all. […]

* * *

Love ruins our lives. One should never underestimate the wound that the other can cause, even if it is a stranger who you are destined to collide with from the most familiar unfamiliar places. For, it is this wound that obliterates and conjures you into worldly existence. The fatal encounter happens when our life is no longer about ourselves, but the sole happiness of the other.

* * *

She is here, she is not here. You are a ghost, but so am I.

* * *

                                                                                                                            —Yours

[…] P.S. You must think I am crazy. How strange it is to write letters! Yet, we write letters all the time through our phones and computers. We even write as we speak; and as we read and think.

The postscript is longer than the letter. I have so much to tell you, even if I am only writing out the exigency of time. […] Look up to the stars, they take us through strange orbits! The light of each star in the night sky took thousands of light years to reach our eyes. These stars are history—some might even be dead. Yet, they appear before us as if they are living in the present. My writings for you are exactly like this. They will always be present as you reread it one week from now, of tomorrow, and of yesteryear. Every time you read this would be as if I wrote it to you for the first time, again, again—and again.

* * *

It is either I commit, or I don’t at all. Somehow, I always find myself caught in this difference. There are no situations where I am in between.

* * *

—(In the Margins)
I know very little of the lover’s language. To write is to have nothing to say. My mind deprives itself from thought. Perhaps love is mute and the secret to this voiceless voice is a twofold paradox: that nothing is to be heard. If all I speak is nothing, I would have nothing to lose. Nothing is important because nothing mattersthis is the secret. […]

* * *

I never keep secrets. In fact, I write down all my secrets and let others keep them for me. If one day, I had forgotten what I wrote; I had forgotten my secret to the point that this secret becomes a secret to myself, I would know that at least it is through my own dwelling of being where I was most transparent and honest.

* * *

I must have been speaking to myself all this time, making up fictitious characters and names? Everyone who I write to disappears. To communicate is to wrestle with the ghosts of the past from the future.

* * *

Do we desire for love or have love for our desires? One can certainly love their own desire. But we can also desire for love so much that desire convinces itself as love. Thus, it is not uncommon that we mistake desire as love, and love as desire. To say, “I love you” is never the same as saying, “I want you”. In my case, both instances apply, and all of it gets lost within the background noise of language. You are to me Felice was to Kafka: the quiet and the confusion of my heart.

* * *

x–In the Margins (of Time)
I do not know who I will become tomorrow, but one thing is certain: my memories of you are reborn as time continues to unfold. We move on, even if we do not move. What does moving on mean? It means to forget you only to remember you again in the future to come. We are only ghosts who haunts ourselves into the brightest and darkest corners of our time. 

But the problem still pertains: having perished, you keep repeating yourself before me. I still wonder why I keep recalling you back as, “what if…” a future to come? Alas, you are reborn! You live up to your name—even in Latin, English and French translations. I dare not to write you as a person, but as the movement of time who takes position as my unnamable affection. —For, all I can endure is, Renee,… Renee,… Renee, . . . ad infinitum. 

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