this is the last letter I found unposted. When I read this letter, I knew, at that moment, that I was looking at his last letter. He had written so.
My silent confidant:
Every moment endures as long as the moment. The vault exists as long as something fills it. The abyss is where I have never been. Therefore I cannot speak of it as a moment. I meant to bring you along, to face this nameless dread and despair that afflict me nightly. But I do not know the way. And I cannot ask you so selfishly to travel with me.
I can call this place a purgatorical world which resembles earth. But resemblance is such a hyprocritical concept - trace after traces of being not quite the thing you classify. How can resemblance be even possible? But that is not the central question here. How do I conquer this whole trial of probation in which it resembles as much as it differs? Without knowing that it is a trial of probation, I neither inhabit the space nor live the time designated. It is the not here and the not there. Now, having conceived this space, I can only dread the relationship I have with the moment which is an experience in the form of a contradiction. I am shocked and I am not shocked. In such an instance (which will take some time to lessen its grip), I have at hand nothing ready to counter this occasion except that of differance. I immediately give up the equivocal significance of the moment in which I could conceive, and misread it as a signifance, and leave the field of relationship. That is to say, I leave. I disappear. What was significant is now deferred into an insignificance. And it is both.
But I am not dead.
I dare not suggest that I am dead. Every human being can only die twice. One figuratively. One literally. I had died that figurative death. And I have yet to die the literal one. Therefore, I have not died. But I will.
I cannot drag you, my reader, along, precisely because I am not yet dead. I can see well my intentions to, so pardon me if I made it seem so.
But now that I have finally identified a moment in time (which I am still in) as a trial of probation - a convenient category I can fully feel safe in - I am at once weakened and strengthened by my conception. The space and time immediately exist. I am living in, consciously this moment.
That way, I can make it the longest detour in my life and escape the scorns and trappings of life, and have the confidence to say that everything that is temptation, I am tempted within this moment and nothing else. It is mine alone to conquer. How sweet. And then I find myself in the abyss. All the sudden, I have done exactly what I set out to prevent. That is the problem with transcendence. How dreadful.
As we jest and frolic with the wind, we find exactly in the wind its danger, its judgment and most of all, its indeterminacy. It comes as it goes. Every movement made, in relation to my flesh and finitude, I do it with a certain determinacy. That is the trap. That is the trap that I have to escape. The irony is that I conceived it. That which gives me the embryoic joy is simultaneously my deadly bane.
How can one sleep with such despair?!
I cannot imagine Job in his waking, seven days with a confidant to listen to his silence. I am no Job. I cannot be eager to prove my right. Do not be eager to serve me. Do not be eager to judge me. But make haste that you do not come near me. until the moment ends. if it ends.
Do not fall in love.
Falling is the worst and best possible way to enter this moment.
But falling also has the potential to show us a different perspective. Perhaps, it is the differance I am looking for, and looking at right now.
It allows me to make haste and move to the next unknown stage. The leap will happen. After this trial of probation. When it happens, without turning it into another abyss of time and space, my letters shall cease. In fact, this is my last. Thank you my reader. For you have given me hope to believe that I can simultaneously be part of a moment and be out of it. Take what you can. Press my invisible hands and find me both there and not. At least we come to an understanding that no one is alone in the moment of life and death. We proceed and endure, despite the deaths and births of many. To live, is precisely the potential to be saved, as long as we hang on to our lives. Let us not recollect or repeat. Let us be really quiet and the wind will blow us to what we belong. The wind will carry the love messages to their intended destinations. One exercises faith not through what could be planned and understood. Faith is as mysterious as murdering your own son for God. You don't talk about it.
Yours,
Nameless Friend.
My silent confidant:
Every moment endures as long as the moment. The vault exists as long as something fills it. The abyss is where I have never been. Therefore I cannot speak of it as a moment. I meant to bring you along, to face this nameless dread and despair that afflict me nightly. But I do not know the way. And I cannot ask you so selfishly to travel with me.
I can call this place a purgatorical world which resembles earth. But resemblance is such a hyprocritical concept - trace after traces of being not quite the thing you classify. How can resemblance be even possible? But that is not the central question here. How do I conquer this whole trial of probation in which it resembles as much as it differs? Without knowing that it is a trial of probation, I neither inhabit the space nor live the time designated. It is the not here and the not there. Now, having conceived this space, I can only dread the relationship I have with the moment which is an experience in the form of a contradiction. I am shocked and I am not shocked. In such an instance (which will take some time to lessen its grip), I have at hand nothing ready to counter this occasion except that of differance. I immediately give up the equivocal significance of the moment in which I could conceive, and misread it as a signifance, and leave the field of relationship. That is to say, I leave. I disappear. What was significant is now deferred into an insignificance. And it is both.
But I am not dead.
I dare not suggest that I am dead. Every human being can only die twice. One figuratively. One literally. I had died that figurative death. And I have yet to die the literal one. Therefore, I have not died. But I will.
I cannot drag you, my reader, along, precisely because I am not yet dead. I can see well my intentions to, so pardon me if I made it seem so.
But now that I have finally identified a moment in time (which I am still in) as a trial of probation - a convenient category I can fully feel safe in - I am at once weakened and strengthened by my conception. The space and time immediately exist. I am living in, consciously this moment.
That way, I can make it the longest detour in my life and escape the scorns and trappings of life, and have the confidence to say that everything that is temptation, I am tempted within this moment and nothing else. It is mine alone to conquer. How sweet. And then I find myself in the abyss. All the sudden, I have done exactly what I set out to prevent. That is the problem with transcendence. How dreadful.
As we jest and frolic with the wind, we find exactly in the wind its danger, its judgment and most of all, its indeterminacy. It comes as it goes. Every movement made, in relation to my flesh and finitude, I do it with a certain determinacy. That is the trap. That is the trap that I have to escape. The irony is that I conceived it. That which gives me the embryoic joy is simultaneously my deadly bane.
How can one sleep with such despair?!
I cannot imagine Job in his waking, seven days with a confidant to listen to his silence. I am no Job. I cannot be eager to prove my right. Do not be eager to serve me. Do not be eager to judge me. But make haste that you do not come near me. until the moment ends. if it ends.
Do not fall in love.
Falling is the worst and best possible way to enter this moment.
But falling also has the potential to show us a different perspective. Perhaps, it is the differance I am looking for, and looking at right now.
It allows me to make haste and move to the next unknown stage. The leap will happen. After this trial of probation. When it happens, without turning it into another abyss of time and space, my letters shall cease. In fact, this is my last. Thank you my reader. For you have given me hope to believe that I can simultaneously be part of a moment and be out of it. Take what you can. Press my invisible hands and find me both there and not. At least we come to an understanding that no one is alone in the moment of life and death. We proceed and endure, despite the deaths and births of many. To live, is precisely the potential to be saved, as long as we hang on to our lives. Let us not recollect or repeat. Let us be really quiet and the wind will blow us to what we belong. The wind will carry the love messages to their intended destinations. One exercises faith not through what could be planned and understood. Faith is as mysterious as murdering your own son for God. You don't talk about it.
Yours,
Nameless Friend.
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