many goodbyes to say.

goodbye to the 6a.m. sunrise, meter running
goodbye to the lila flowers that grew outside the Wittnau garden
goodbye to the Paris Nord Station, trains departing
goodbye to the orange bus
goodbye to the Tirol mountains, cable cars ascending, descending
goodbye last meals
goodbye to the orange apartment
goodbye to the cats
goodbye to the madness that was my plain happiness
goodbye to the mirror
goodbye to the sleepless nights, with dreams galore
goodbye to the airports, train stations and bus terminals
goodbye to you, you, you and you
goodbye jealousy
goodbye inmaterial world
goodbye dreams
goodbye to the beads

but don't ask me to say goodbye to you, again
this feeling won't go away.

these words,
don't belong,
to me,
I, belong,
not to this,
familiar,
world.
strangely,
I do not,
belong,
to these
words.

opposing the orientation of love, o selfish love, is the quality of hospitality, the calm and peaceful welcome to the stranger standing opposite you, the absolute human other, with both the potential to hurt or embrace, either a sweet conversation or a murderous intent; or somewhere in between, neither nor.
the nearness of the other, or the distance, proximity of two, summons a responsibility.
loneliness is the first condition, that which the cry of a infant calls out to announce his or her arrival to the world of things exemplifies, hence, he or she is no longer, in a sense, lonely.

every introduction is always a mystery, that later a language, a gesture or a responsibility to summon veils or 'unveils' the persona, character or personality of the person.

loving is first a projection, a field that covers the other, and immediately traps the other in a subject-object relation: I love You.

the verb is the link; the linkage between other two different people.
the connection is first a disconnection, which encourages the loving force to push/pull one to the other. hence, identities dissolved, mixed, destroyed and new ones are created constantly.

i prefer hospitality, the non-violent reaction to an-other; a dialogue between two subjects. the tender face-to-face contact.
but is it possible?

~

look into my eyes, before the night is done, before the breaking of the day, if light permits, say you do not know me, and you would have finally known who I am.

the pigment of my skin?
the contours of your cheeks?
the colour of your pupils?
the number of freckles on my face?
see my look, is it forlorn or peaceful?
see your look, is it exhaustion or excitement?

it is the east and west; the sun and the moon together, hanging on the canvas of a sky.

there shall I see You. there shall I bow and drop from the sky.

i don't quite know why I went to hong kong.

it was as if there was something calling out to me.
the mere pleasure of being away in a foreign country?
the mirror staging of identity in order to find what's so different between them and us?
some nostalgic return to a place I hated and grew to like it after the trip?
or to stare at some wall, grey and cold; ready for me to vandalise.
but I do not know what to draw on it.

took so many pictures.
but it is almost a mockery (a pleasant one) that this random picture turns out to be the best.
for reasons unexplainable.

Instead, I would like to dwell on the fact that it almost captured the precise moment when I felt I was alone, and not alone; myself and not myself; staring in awe and in shame; it was a sight compromised. An act I freely chose to do, but the patterns were not solely determined by me.

isn't this a perfect allegory of my condition?
I'm constantly in limbo. That is why every travel feels similar to that constant tension - to exist and not exist. free and chained.
I am in transit.
Every travelling exposes what I am and what I hid.
There is great meaning in such exposition.

But there are still some things that have no meaning.

The trick is not to rush to a UNESCO site.
the trick is to spend all waiting time (taking a bus, train, airplane, in a restaurant) to ask if you are alive.

all senses are filtered.
know your idiosyncrasies alone or to someone else. you'll discover a new and old you.

I think I spend too much time alone.
i don't quite know how to deal with the human other.

meditation #n

I live in a world that does not know me.
And I do not know this world.
At the very least then, is a speech, a dialogue or a language that binds me to this world; in order to participate.

all that is left is that complex relation between I and this world.
but really, is it a subject-object relation?

grace is what brought me to a here and now.
every god-inspired breath, every prayer (speech) is a faith;
a faith of everything always incomprehensible.
to pretend that we know is to lie.
to lie is to forget the honesty of being a being.

must I silently scream out my existence? in the face of possible existents?
'it is the best thing I ever have.'
the best is always what I already have, have had.

must there be metaphysics?
aren't we always facing the immediate?
what is not immediate is an indeterminacy; as if I have no means to reflect on its truth
but can I ever?

an anxiety comes with the daily onslaught of the day; that which is the immediate truth of a new awakening, after a night of insomnia or sleep.

that is true metaphysics, the seconds or minutes of darkness as you shut your eyes away from the immediate, resting on the almost eternal, as if there will be a tomorrow, after the today is just yet to be gone.
that is when the silent Creator whispers nothing to you.

for so often we deal with life with a presence, a materiality or a evident object to substantiate truth. It is as if I must do so and so to be a truth.
That is a great conceit.

there is, in that span of silent preparation to sleep, a profound communication of an extreme void or absence of anything and everything except sleepiness; like a thief that snatches your treasures immediately when he faces you or after a long gruelling sleeplessness and wait, finally he comes when you grow tired of waiting. Instead of throwing a weight on us, it is pure transcendence via a darkness, a nothingness; a transition from consciousness to unconsciousness and back again. In between; almost an aporia, an impasse that consciousness cannot grasp; cannot experience; unable to comprehend while awake, in immediacy.
that is the antithesis of whatever simulacra or performances this world of sin throws at us, pretending that we are masters of them. You don't seek to comprehend it or even devour it. You simply cannot. It predicates incomprehension. It is, to begin with, always a mystery; always abstract, always experience in the unconscious.

eventually, it is really a cycle of destruction, creation and regeneration; fire, water and mercury.
the condition of grace; grace as the most incomprehensible das Gift. the freedom to dream and yet the chain of existence that pulls you to sleep.


now, do not reduce me to a Sameness.
in the alterity in us all, is the baby steps to bridge (or not bridge) that gulf of infinity.
It is where I sleep, perchance to dream, perchance to prepare; as a precursor to the final sleep, the final face-to-face with my Creator.

13 is the number before sunrise,
always the gap between midnight and dawn
reach me, when i call out the number
reject the call, if you can't recognise the number.

ignite the flame of mercury,
poison and rising temperature,
i will, with the number 13,
drop into the abyss,
and with my self will,
clothed in silversteel
battle the dark knight of the abysmal will
as if there is no tomorrow,
as if there is no tomorrow.

I stand, in between,
as the synthesis of binaries,
pain and joy all in one,
curse and cure all in one flesh,
can't rise, can't fall,
but I will to rise and fall along with this epic battle,
unfolding daily,
come 13th warrior,
Judas and Paul,
Abel and Cain,
I shall forever be in your debt.

this long vacation must end, sooner than later.

gently and kindly the old hand stretches out to offer the little girl a small biscuit,
without a care and very innocently she accepts,
and with those tiny palms of hers, she brings the biscuit close to her lips,
and she nimbles and with sparkling eyes, announces a kind deed done.


she asks, with the same sparkle, if the birds will visit tonight.

And the old man answers with the same affectionate tone that they will visit.

"If you wait long enough, they will."

And so the little girl looks at her biscuit and decides to keep it.

"I'll leave the rest for the birds!" she cries.

the old man just smiles and waits with the girl as she sits down on the floor, looking up at the sky in anticipation.


the birds arrive, as promised indeed.
she turns around in great excitement to tell the old man. but to her astonishment, the old man just disappeared!

she begins to look at herself and realise how big she has grown, though she probably won't be able to see her own face. she looks around her surroundings and people are looking at her as if she has gone mad. That is when she realises that she's too old to be jumping around. She calms down, sad that the old man left without saying goodbye. She takes a final look at the flying birds, now decreasing as they realise they won't find dinner here, tonight.

she will come back here some day, she promises herself.

but who knows when? and where has the old man gone?


some days represent our entire lives.

Céline: Yeah, but I had worked for this older man, and once he told me that he had spent all of his life thinking about his career and his work, and... he was 52 and it suddenly struck him that he had never really given anything of himself. His life was for no one, and nothing. He was almost crying saying that. You know, I believe if there's any kind of God, it wouldn't be in any of us. Not you, or me... but just this little space in between. If there's any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone, sharing something (sigh). I know, it's almost impossible to succeed, but... who cares, really? The answer must be in the attempt.

(They both stare for a while, and then half-sigh, half-laugh)



Hi,

a moment consists of a Hi, Bye and everything in between.


and everything in between is divine.
that little distance in between;

that little gaze that cannot penetrate deep enough,
lingering long to just meet the gaze of the other,
slowly coming into a gentle whispering of the eyes,
as if to say, 'I know you'.

as if to blink in a second, reaching out through invisible means,
to speak what words fail to express,
within a space between two, where an infinite moment shared could, in an instant,
spark the life that comes after.
only between two, that creates the third; the possibility of the third.
every second of that meeting.

whether it is the first breath of a newborn,
or the last moments of a man on gallows,
the gaze never leaves us,
as if to learn to know us.

so,
to those who shared with me those little, precious moments together,
when I said hi and bye, lived and died,
we know each other.

Yours,
Other than yourself.

Bye.

how many seconds before i wake?
how many fleeting moments before i wake?
I have visions to see before I wake and visions to see before I wake.

how many times must I die before I live again?
and again?
how many times must i live after i die again?

no water to rise, no vapour to fall;
the surface is so bare, so impregnable, and so dry.

to get to the point;
no,
the surface of things;
i wanted to say to you just now - i miss your hysterical laughter;
on rewind?
playback -
forward,
stop.

to be continued. editing in process.