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Confessions: Temporal Interlude (From the Future)

I am have been pretty busy with grad school, but I woke up this morning and felt a little bit of winter blues. So I decided to to take some time off from my readings and share more of my journal entries—particularly the ones I chose to exclude in my last post. Initially, I was reluctant on sharing them because some of the writings hits way too close to home. This is one of the reasons why I let it sit as a draft for the past 10 months. At the end, I decided to share them because I liked what I wrote. Since most of the entries were already in place 10 months ago, all I had to do was write the intro and publish it (I just went back and made some small grammar adjustments).

Since last year, I have been slowly typing my old handwritten journal entries onto my computer. So far, out of the 30+ typed pages, “Renee” is the only name that appears in it. Yes, she is a real person. When I was mixing up my entries, I tried to make it look like she was part of the movement of time, or as a “fictitious name” that I made up, despite hinting her name right at the beginning in the second entry. I won’t lie to you here, she is real, and she is really sweet in real life, even if I don’t see her anymore. I decided to transform her name into the metaphor for the movement of time who occupies the space of eternity and repetition because how her name translates as “reborn”.

Some of the entries from my last post were actually a combination of different pieces of writings put together. For example, the last line from the last entry was written separately from the rest (“Renee,…Renee,…Renee,…ad infinitum”). The passage was written on November 11th 2018, whereas the rest of the entry was written in March 2019 (I know I said the entries were between 2015-2018, I lied). I write a lot about random things in my journal. Usually my “in the margins” sections were about analyzing my feelings. In the middle of the post, I incorporated the post script (P.S.) which began with the closure of a letter, “—Yours”. This fragment was a real letter that I wrote to R. in November 2018. I had kept the letter with me every time I saw her, but I never gave it to her because I knew she doesn’t like it when I write to her. The letter was 5 pages in length, where the actual letter was only 1 page, and the post script was 4 pages long. I remembered I stayed up till 5 AM writing it because I rewrote it four times by hand, since I wanted it to be perfect. Unfortunately, the letter(s) ended up going through the shredder. What you read are the remnants that were miraculously saved in my Dropbox because I borrowed some / mixed passages that I had previously written on her from my journal.

There is something really magnificent about her. She was, and still is, very inspiring to me, which was what allowed me to produce writings that I have come to admire. After all this time, she had occupied the center in most of my personal writings. Even if I don’t think she shared the same feelings as I did, I still have warm feelings for her. To tell you the truth, the post was dedicated to her and all the things she unknowingly taught me. I know she will never come across my blog (knock on wood), which is another reason why I chose to share my thoughts on here. Perhaps the future is to come. But whatever happens, I just want her to be happy and safe—that’s enough for me.

The following fragments were the remainders that I left out in my last post due to various reasons, such as the direct use of her name. I have written a lot more about her, but I don’t think I will share anymore of them on here. Perhaps one day, I will elaborate on some of the philosophical ideas and intentions behind these fragments. I still remember my mentor who once said to me: “Life is nothing if not an uncertain adventure with the potential and invitation, against all odds, for hospitality with its unavoidable vulnerability”. Thus here I am, against all odds, sharing with you some of my unavoidable vulnerabilities.


To tell you the truth, I have translated your name many times over: Renee, Rene, Renata, Renatus, Renascentia. As I traverse you across languages, you mark the end, only so you can begin again. You destine the silence as I detour around you, substitute you, only to lose you whilst en route to you. My voice as it echos, echos, echos. You do not speak. If you let me, I would have told you in my letter from November: there is no longer any cause of you. And I will never have to defend your return as you circle back to me.

* * *

I write much better at night when I cannot see you. Sometimes, I wish I could tell you all the excuses I give myself to return to this place—so that I too, could be reborn into your presence. This wound makes of you who you are to me.

* * *

Can there be a voice that can transmit from me to you? I don’t think you have met anyone like me before. […]

* * *

I am intoxicated and lost in your presence. You are the dose I need to cure my wound.

* * *

You must wonder why I have not spoken to you after all this time? I have been silently writing you in these pages for years! All that I have written were about you, uniquely you, my love. […]

* * *

Once again, I arrive at this place. Always late, always arriving too late. Sometimes, I wonder what it means to wait for you in the margins of time. I always look out the window, hoping to see you arrive at my destination. But it turns out that I am always the one who waits for the arrival of my waiting for you.

* * *

[…] I still wonder, what is it about you that has been reborn? My undying passion for you?

* * *

xx, xx, 2018. —In the Margins
There are times when I am suddenly thrown into your discourse. I do not know where I am. I wonder, not knowing, no where, elsewhere, here. I look, I do not look. I feel, I do not feel. I am traversed into you.

* * *

Often times, we try to fit in so much that we forget who we are and our true self is lost forever. Therefore, it is always easier to be who we are not than to be who we truly are. But it has not occurred to us that we have never been our authentic self. In fact, we always think we are authentic insofar that its aura remains intact, for it has always already deceived us into believing it as truth. […]

* * *

Without your living soul who gives my words its breath, my writings would not be able to speak, and my words for you would be like death occupying empty space. This is what you see in my writings: a graveyard of corpses who awaits your resurrection. […]

* * *

This place reminds me too much of you, even if you are no longer here. As I repeat you  onto these pages, I wonder: what if…one day you arrived before me and we understood each other? I still secretly hope to see you again—even if it is through my memories. But if we do see each other again, will you remember me? Will you acknowledge me? Missed chances, missed encounters, that is all I had known. […]

* * *

-Marginalia
Today, I was walking to my car after one of my busiest afternoons, I had suddenly remembered that I forgot about you. Yes, I remembered to forget—a difficult contradiction that I must now learn to accept. I walked past a coffee shop and saw a young woman whose hair deceived your absence. “Ah! She must be living in your shadows, she even drives a red car!”. How strange, every red car I encounter on the street belongs to you. Every woman who carries your hair reminds me of you. —Renee, you are everywhere. I must be losing my mind. […]

* * *

Sometimes, I wonder if I did things differently, would you give me a chance? But I suppose none of it matters. For, if I could re-live all these moments, I would do everything I did in the exact same way. Without regrets, without holding anything back—letting it all come to you and I, once again, at full force. […]

* * *

Should one believe in accidents that were not meant to happen, but have happened and therefore destined to happen?

* * *

[—in the Margins, From the Future]
At the bottom of every page, I always leave an empty space, secretly hoping that you would respond to me. […]

* * *

-in Margins,
I have been too weak to write you lately. Our encounters are by chance, yes. They are fatal, too, yes. I feel like I am all alone in my love for you. I am sure that I am writing you only to cast you out into the future. Every man must be desperate to give you their world, the every all of their little universe. But I would never give you my world—it is too muddled, too abyssal, too finite. It is not enough for you, Renee. I would much prefer to give up my world in order to live in yours for eternity.

* * *

Perhaps you must be wondering how strange it is to encounter a man such as I, who writes in strange spaces without interruption—only for you to interrupt me from a place where you are never at. For you to destine me into these words, I am beginning to think I am inscribing nonsense whilst wanting you to understand me. In the moments such as you are on these pages; as you read the words without sounds, without speech—without anything that would otherwise utter your silence, animating your existence at the frontier of time. You become the living flame and ashes, in the edges of my writing, of my grammar, my lexicon. Language, dispersed. Space collapsed, distance abolished.

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