A final afternoon in our world of temporal disregard, this time in the land of meteorological non-delight. The day’s mood was consumed by a subtle yet haunting dread which anticipated our divergence the following afternoon. A prolonged car ride away from my home that was not a home. The car was otherwise comfortable and his quiet snoring was amusing. It was a fresh, half-sunny, half-overcast, afternoon. The rays of colourless light were shining pity between the clouds, on our disappointment at the close of our three-week episode of isolation.
Arriving at the driveway of the uninspiring hotel was a partial relief that ended the awkward tension between the driver and us. The reception appeared as a temporary desk transformed into an open office that occupied the space of something which called itself a lobby. The hotel presented itself as inhospitable as the plains of overgrown vegetation that surrounded the airport, so much so that apart from its superstructure and accompanying expressway, it seemed to blend into the barren wasteland that surrounded Heathrow. A single floor’s elevator ride and a moderate walk through a damp hallway away was our room. Its interior was continuous with the unremarkable corridor. A woodiness lent some comfort to the room, of which the bathroom stole almost half the space. A minuscule desk with a humble chair sat on the carpeted floor, which was damp from the leaking bathroom which also wet my socks. Once our belongings and our selves were in the room, there was little space for anything else, but I guess there did not need be.
Some sunlight which persisted outside shone into the room, but despite a lack of clouds, the light and the room felt enveloped in a grey blanket. The air on the other side of the window seemed thin, as though it could not support life. Some loose shrubbery congregated in a small corner by the wall of the building opposite, somehow proving there was enough vitality in the air to sustain the last remaining traces of the natural world in the no man’s land. I could not decide whether the room was cozy or whether it was slowly threatening to suffocate us.
After putting our lugagge down, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at me with his adorable brown eyes, while momentarily biting his soft red lips. His playful seductiveness illuminated my sensory perception and made me decide that the room was indeed cozy with him in it. I had to liberate his irresistible lips with my own and so I perched right next to him and wrapped my arms around his shoulders as our mouths felt each other’s. We snacked on some fruit and shrimp which we had brought with us on our journey. He had a tea, I had a coffee, and we shared a smoothie. Sitting on the edge of the tiny chair, one of the shrimp slipped from the grip of my fork, and it with its water fell onto the side of my backpack within an absurd, humorous second. A small idiosyncratic moment engraved into the fabric of the bag, which was already fraying with the wear that had accumulated over the years and miles.
We laid on the bed for some hours, dazed and energised at the same time. Our carnal desire for each other was steadily increasing and at some point we curbed our hunger by arranging dinner downstairs, where we were told to order from the phone in the room from an extensive menu of 4 choices. We soon picked up and ate an unhealthy yet savourable meal.
We laid on the bed immersed in each other, covered by a haze of melancholia that made the back of my throat feel tight. My eyes were covered by a thin lustre that formed at the perturbance of our inevitable separation, but which also glowed with my appreciation of the beauty of his physical and mental form. A hidden unsettlement which I could not let rise to the surface. We entertained ourselves into the night with our own words and some amusing videos.
Existing so close to one another on the bed for so long, we intermittently teased each other with our touch and our tongues. Our craving for each other eventually escalated as we began to undress. He consumed me passionately while satisfying my appetite at the same time. We basked in a post-coital euphoria where his upper body laid in the cradle of my left arm. His being rested so perfectly next to mine.
I caress his smooth skin, longing to connect with his graceful soul. We lie on our sides, staring into the depths of each other’s eyes, my arms hold him tight and close as though I am clinging onto the last glimmer of hope in the perseverance of compassion amidst the desolate wasteland of my world. His body radiates an unregulated warmth next to my own, underneath the soft blankets, our heat dissolving off into the crispy air of the cold room, as we slowly drift into the dreamworld.
We awoke in the morning and he hurried downstairs to pick up a small breakfast for us to share later in the day. He returned to the bed and we continued to enjoy the warmth of each other for some more hours. His sensual existence pressed against mine, quickly reactivating my carnal desires and this time I consumed him while also quenching this thirst. An hour later we left the hotel room.
We killed the overly ample time of the afternoon by commuting between terminals and dropping off baggage. In those moments we were able to sneak some unobserved kisses. We dreaded as the time for him to progress to the airside approached. We shared extended hug. Part of me feared to feel him filter through my arms and dissolve into the wide yonder of the impatient world, while the other part of me pulled him as tight as possible to sense his calming and ever-present aura closer to my own soul. After that moment, I knew that I would crave to feel him in my arms and that my heart would not rest until exactly that would happen again.
Friday, June 12, 2020
Tuesday, December 31, 2019
End of Year 2019 (December 31, 2019)
I am thankful for another year of beautiful stories, of unique journeys that have taken me to familiar and new places.
It has been a satisfying journey of rekindling the greatness that unites people through their common realisations, appreciating the refinement and scrutiny that makes someone value what they have; discussing the shortcomings of existence in a place that takes for granted the things for which you believed should be fought; keeping connections which have been threatened by persisting distance; delighting in the beauty of language; witnessing that some things that could go wrong will; perpetuating ever-present mortal desires in the everyday, driving endlessly with going nowhere, and realising the shortcomings of a mundane existence.
I am glad to have achieved an internal closure that has facilitated sustainability. I have been intrigued by seeing the hidden beauty of small niches in the countryside. I have been fulfilled by being able to sustain a meaningful connection which will last indefinitely. I appreciate the transition that has unfolded. I value the knowledge and perceptions you will always give me. (T)
I am happy to have shared another beautiful year. I am happy with time spent in four countries and seeing some of those places in a new light. I have been immersed by discovering the depths of a faraway land by a false sea where the wind knows no mercy and where the nights are long. I am filled by what has transpired. I am moved by the convolution that has sometimes made it difficult and, at the same time, stronger. (L)
I am delighted to see the fate of the unexpected experiences together. I value the way in which a familiar place can be witnessed in a way that makes it seem even more beautiful than it originally seemed. I have been enchanted by the post-midnight dreamworld. I am engrossed by your intellectual and physical existence for time as I know it. (N)
“The stars are still being beautiful on the nights you cannot see them.”
“Some people don’t deserve the air they breathe”. ––Henrik
“We are simply better.” ––Natalie
“I want everything to end.” ––Lara
“You remind me that things have never changes and should never really” ––Yousef
“It’s underage so of course you like it” ––Lukas
“People like them don’t understand and never will.” ––Niklas
“I don’t have a driver’s license. I prefer to be driven.” ––Julien
“If I would have meant you, I would have said your name.” ––Tom
“The popularity of this world is as transient as it’s glory.”
“Take a moment to breathe the breath of life and realise that everything else does not matter; that the gift of your physiological and psychological balance is the gift of the universe, that tonight and tomorrow belong to you and to your fate, that your ambition is simultaneously precious and worthless, shaping what could be, and what could be in your way on your self-designated path of endless flagellation towards a distant and unattainable place called happiness.”
Monday, December 2, 2019
Another Post-Midnight Dreamworld (December 2, 2019)
The piercing cold of the winter evening bites your cheeks as the wind carries it past you. The natural world is as relentless as it is merciless. Another evening in the hometown that is not your hometown, a place where your heart was first broken and where it still lives.
The bustling of the Weihnachtsmarkt exudes a late-year enthusiasm into the Altstadt, and the murmur of the nightlife pours into the cobblestoned streets, flooding the place with an alcohol-induced liveliness. The night is still young, and the feelings are still fresh. The mulled wine is sweet and sweetened by the amaretto and his smile.
Your thoughts and time are whizzing, your mind is still drenched in the wine from the flight with which you arrived several hours prior. Your speech and excitement are fizzing, your hype inflated by the bubbles of the champagne you had in the room earlier. Your effervescence prevents you from sinking into the beauty of the moment or into the enchantment of his company.
The evening passes quickly into night as impatiently as the artificial lights that try to penetrate it. In the restaurant and in the bar, he plunges into the oblivion with you, becoming your accompaniment in the stupor. Your consciousnesses run away with the passing time and at some point, are returned to you when the unforgiving cold stabs you as you go outside.
The wind carries the cold past you and steals your oblivion away. The mercilessness of the winter is sobering. You hurry with him over the cobblestoned street, away from the flooding nightlife: that is, the life that tries to overcome the night. The dark intensity is stunning and enveloping. It consumes you almost as much as the idea of him.
The Rheinuferpromenade and the stories which you have created with her are disturbed and reincarnated by you trampling over their remnants that lie along the riverside. The nights of sitting on benches and seeing the lights of the city reflected over the scintillating water, where you many years ago were asked to imagine sitting with someone you truly loved, the year when you did that, and the years you have spent nights with friends from whom you are now distant.
…
You are hit by the warmth of the grand hotel that has been your home away from home for the last 5 years. The arrogance of the indoors is cold and warm when contrasted by the freezing outside.
His beautiful physical form is a pleasure to your eyes and your touch. Seeing and hearing him and his instrument and the harmony that is their totality submerges you in the performance and reignites your lost love of real music. His expression and perception make you think again. His being reminds you of the things you missed so much. His intellect makes you believe that you are so different yet so similar.
Time is always running faster when you are with him, but you remain nonchalant and unperturbed because the world stands still when you are in his company. Your bodies and your thoughts are untouchable in the post-midnight dreamland above the Königsallee. You are a little dazed by the bottle of champagne that sits on the soft tablecloth of the room service trolley as it watches your infatuated mind trying to open his
You have persisted with him into the lateness of the night into which even the nightlife outside has begun to die. The music spills quietly in the background, some of is absorbed by the soft carpet. You sit at the edge of the luxurious bed which sinks at the weight of your craving. You kiss him slowly and innocently as though he was your first. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull his chest towards yours so you can almost feel his heartbeat against yours. You want for this moment to last forever and if ever had an end you would want it to be with him in your arms.
The matrimony of the depth of his soul and the allure of his form foster your mesmerisation in his very existence. These enchanting episodes drown you in a euphoria that only leaves you wanting more. You try to float on the surface of your feelings so that you do not sink into the blindness of the non-reality where you always desire something greater. You realise that regardless of your and his fate, the realisation that there was once something special means it always will be special in some way, much like how stars are still being beautiful on the nights you cannot see them.
The bustling of the Weihnachtsmarkt exudes a late-year enthusiasm into the Altstadt, and the murmur of the nightlife pours into the cobblestoned streets, flooding the place with an alcohol-induced liveliness. The night is still young, and the feelings are still fresh. The mulled wine is sweet and sweetened by the amaretto and his smile.
Your thoughts and time are whizzing, your mind is still drenched in the wine from the flight with which you arrived several hours prior. Your speech and excitement are fizzing, your hype inflated by the bubbles of the champagne you had in the room earlier. Your effervescence prevents you from sinking into the beauty of the moment or into the enchantment of his company.
The evening passes quickly into night as impatiently as the artificial lights that try to penetrate it. In the restaurant and in the bar, he plunges into the oblivion with you, becoming your accompaniment in the stupor. Your consciousnesses run away with the passing time and at some point, are returned to you when the unforgiving cold stabs you as you go outside.
The wind carries the cold past you and steals your oblivion away. The mercilessness of the winter is sobering. You hurry with him over the cobblestoned street, away from the flooding nightlife: that is, the life that tries to overcome the night. The dark intensity is stunning and enveloping. It consumes you almost as much as the idea of him.
The Rheinuferpromenade and the stories which you have created with her are disturbed and reincarnated by you trampling over their remnants that lie along the riverside. The nights of sitting on benches and seeing the lights of the city reflected over the scintillating water, where you many years ago were asked to imagine sitting with someone you truly loved, the year when you did that, and the years you have spent nights with friends from whom you are now distant.
…
You are hit by the warmth of the grand hotel that has been your home away from home for the last 5 years. The arrogance of the indoors is cold and warm when contrasted by the freezing outside.
His beautiful physical form is a pleasure to your eyes and your touch. Seeing and hearing him and his instrument and the harmony that is their totality submerges you in the performance and reignites your lost love of real music. His expression and perception make you think again. His being reminds you of the things you missed so much. His intellect makes you believe that you are so different yet so similar.
Time is always running faster when you are with him, but you remain nonchalant and unperturbed because the world stands still when you are in his company. Your bodies and your thoughts are untouchable in the post-midnight dreamland above the Königsallee. You are a little dazed by the bottle of champagne that sits on the soft tablecloth of the room service trolley as it watches your infatuated mind trying to open his
You have persisted with him into the lateness of the night into which even the nightlife outside has begun to die. The music spills quietly in the background, some of is absorbed by the soft carpet. You sit at the edge of the luxurious bed which sinks at the weight of your craving. You kiss him slowly and innocently as though he was your first. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull his chest towards yours so you can almost feel his heartbeat against yours. You want for this moment to last forever and if ever had an end you would want it to be with him in your arms.
The matrimony of the depth of his soul and the allure of his form foster your mesmerisation in his very existence. These enchanting episodes drown you in a euphoria that only leaves you wanting more. You try to float on the surface of your feelings so that you do not sink into the blindness of the non-reality where you always desire something greater. You realise that regardless of your and his fate, the realisation that there was once something special means it always will be special in some way, much like how stars are still being beautiful on the nights you cannot see them.
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
The Things that Persist Inside (November 5, 2019)
Sometimes you think that you can no longer fall into the infatuation. Sometimes you manage so well to skim over the surface of your emotional existence that the deep and concerning thoughts do not penetrate your oblivion but fade into nothingness and night.
Amidst the beautiful escapes you secure for yourself, you plunge wilfully into the beauty of the night but none of the nothingness. The darkness of the outside is pierced by the proud streetlamps of the city centre and by the falsely masculine cars that occupy the driveway. The bustling of the outside is sustained by the hurried people, impatient vehicles and their frustrated interactions. The light of the inside is sustained by the chandeliers in the foyers and concealed lights within the cornices. The bustling of the outside is resisted by the two-layers of doors in the lobby, the two layers of glass in every window and muffled by the thick, continuous carpet underfoot. The outside and inside are kept separate to ensure that the pollution of sound, light and air from outside do not touch the muffled sound, recreated light, and filtered air of the inside.
The interior of the luxury hotel is adorned with pretty fixtures, upholding the pretentiousness which keeps the arrogant at ease. It is nonetheless beautiful to the eyes. It is a sanctuary in the city where the struggles and stresses are dissolved in the serenity and where the worries and woes are lost in the wealth. The marble is glistening, the bronze is shimmering; but the chandelier is collapsing, the air is suffocating, and the footsteps are drowning. The beauty is alluring but lifeless because this world is immortal.
The room is spacious and decadent, with every comfort you could sensibly desire; yet, its vastness proves unwelcoming. When you show him into the room, it feels warmer and more complete. He makes the place become what you wish it to be. The beauty becomes intriguing and vital, but that is because it is his beauty.
Despite the long-awaited anticipation for finally meeting, you distance yourself from your expectations. To your joy, you realise he is a better incarnation of the impression which you had created prior. His face is a pleasure to your sight, whose sharp features delight your satisfaction in the proportions. His body is a sensation to your touch, whose lean masculinity arouses your appreciation of the carnal. His voice is an enchantment to your attention, whose charm triggers your susceptibility to the impressions, and whose simultaneous foreignness and closeness brushes you into the trap that is his aura.
You regret not staring long enough into his eyes when the time was there. Your thoughts were racing and skimming on the surface of those moments, not considering how much they could mean later. You were lured into his eyes where you were not drawn to anything in particular but instead were captivated by an absolute paleness. To your delight, the night still lasted long into the lateness and never faded into the nothingness.
You shared so much in those precious days and nights, but it was not enough. The only thing of which you had too much was alcohol and you should have had less of it and instead consumed more of him. Connected in body and mind, momentarily, but with something persisting, indefinitely.
The pseudo-equilibrium of your psychological self has been disrupted by him. He has made it more difficult for you to exist in the new home that is not your real home. You hope that you could cultivate something with him more than those few nights that now feel like a distant time of the past. The euphoria of those moments overflows from your memories and floods your destinies, shaping the path that is and what could be. There is too much nostalgia for you to tolerate in this moment, so you must give it to the future. That future where your hopes are burning with the lust of meeting him again, amidst the fresh euphoria, as you open the door to the room where those memories live themselves out once more.
Amidst the beautiful escapes you secure for yourself, you plunge wilfully into the beauty of the night but none of the nothingness. The darkness of the outside is pierced by the proud streetlamps of the city centre and by the falsely masculine cars that occupy the driveway. The bustling of the outside is sustained by the hurried people, impatient vehicles and their frustrated interactions. The light of the inside is sustained by the chandeliers in the foyers and concealed lights within the cornices. The bustling of the outside is resisted by the two-layers of doors in the lobby, the two layers of glass in every window and muffled by the thick, continuous carpet underfoot. The outside and inside are kept separate to ensure that the pollution of sound, light and air from outside do not touch the muffled sound, recreated light, and filtered air of the inside.
The interior of the luxury hotel is adorned with pretty fixtures, upholding the pretentiousness which keeps the arrogant at ease. It is nonetheless beautiful to the eyes. It is a sanctuary in the city where the struggles and stresses are dissolved in the serenity and where the worries and woes are lost in the wealth. The marble is glistening, the bronze is shimmering; but the chandelier is collapsing, the air is suffocating, and the footsteps are drowning. The beauty is alluring but lifeless because this world is immortal.
The room is spacious and decadent, with every comfort you could sensibly desire; yet, its vastness proves unwelcoming. When you show him into the room, it feels warmer and more complete. He makes the place become what you wish it to be. The beauty becomes intriguing and vital, but that is because it is his beauty.
Despite the long-awaited anticipation for finally meeting, you distance yourself from your expectations. To your joy, you realise he is a better incarnation of the impression which you had created prior. His face is a pleasure to your sight, whose sharp features delight your satisfaction in the proportions. His body is a sensation to your touch, whose lean masculinity arouses your appreciation of the carnal. His voice is an enchantment to your attention, whose charm triggers your susceptibility to the impressions, and whose simultaneous foreignness and closeness brushes you into the trap that is his aura.
You regret not staring long enough into his eyes when the time was there. Your thoughts were racing and skimming on the surface of those moments, not considering how much they could mean later. You were lured into his eyes where you were not drawn to anything in particular but instead were captivated by an absolute paleness. To your delight, the night still lasted long into the lateness and never faded into the nothingness.
You shared so much in those precious days and nights, but it was not enough. The only thing of which you had too much was alcohol and you should have had less of it and instead consumed more of him. Connected in body and mind, momentarily, but with something persisting, indefinitely.
The pseudo-equilibrium of your psychological self has been disrupted by him. He has made it more difficult for you to exist in the new home that is not your real home. You hope that you could cultivate something with him more than those few nights that now feel like a distant time of the past. The euphoria of those moments overflows from your memories and floods your destinies, shaping the path that is and what could be. There is too much nostalgia for you to tolerate in this moment, so you must give it to the future. That future where your hopes are burning with the lust of meeting him again, amidst the fresh euphoria, as you open the door to the room where those memories live themselves out once more.
Friday, June 28, 2019
The Air of the Night (June 29, 2019)
We lose touch of our true selves because we are too caught up in the constructs of our lives.
The moment belongs to you and no one else, do not let the thoughts of others or of things corrupt your mind.
Breathe and breathe the breath of life.
Feel and feel the feeling of what it means to be alive.
Sense the blow of the mighty wind and savour the wrath of the burning sun.
Breathe and breathe the breath of life.
Listen and hear the sound of what it says to be alone.
Alone in the vastness of everything.
Walk through the city after dark, without your phone, without anything. Ignore the people and the cars. The night is yours. Tonight and tomorrow belong to you, and only you.
Nobody and nothing; your home, your friends and your family are nowhere.
It is just you, breathing the breath of life. Alone, but alive.
You can exist, alone. Nothing else but your mind and your person matter. Every single other person, their dialogue, their comfort and their distraction are redundant. An unending show that takes the attention away from your own self.
You do not need people or things. You do not need distraction. You have your self and your self-awareness. You can exist, alone and alive, because your emotional and intellectual being is superior to those that need to pacify themselves with the preoccupation that is society.
Take a moment to breathe. Wander through the dark of the winter night. Through the middle of the city, by the sea or by the river. Hear the silence that is nothingness. The persistence of the wind and the merciless of the dark.
Realise that no other person may disrupt the equilibrium that is the independent you.
Consider that the comfort of those for whom you care and the comfort of those you believe care about you is lost, and that no one cares about anything except that caring may bring them comfort.
The moment you stop skimming on the surface of your own life will be the moment you dive into the mystery that is yourself. Self-awareness is not knowing that you are socially awkward or un-photogenic, self-awareness is knowing why you cheated on the one you thought you loved, knowing why you chose your career, why you aspire to the ideals to which you aspire, and what these mean to you, without any reference to people.
Let go of your addictions, the addictions that prevent you from reaching yourself. Not only addictions of substance, your alcohol, your drugs and your sex; but addictions of preoccupying yourself. Addictions to busying yourself with your occupation, your sports and your social media. The only pseudo satisfaction from your addiction is the illusion of progression and the escape from a real truth.
The reality in which you indulge yourself is not a reality, but a shallow pool of outward interactions and projections which you have been led to falsely believe fulfil you. Oblivion through busyness is not fulfilment, and will never be.
Take a moment to breathe the breath of life and realise that everything else does not matter; that the gift of your physiological and psychological balance is the gift of the universe, that tonight and tomorrow belong to you and to your fate, that your ambition is simultaneously precious and worthless, shaping what could be, and what could be in your way on your self-designated path of endless flagellation towards a distant and unattainable place called happiness.
Venture into the depth of the night, and explore your own self. Penetrate the mystery of your thoughts amid the false silence of the landscape, of the traffic in the urban or the nature in the rural. The cars that traverse in the distance and the wind blows in the near are passing faster than your thoughts will ever be able to race, because everything is moving faster than the rate at which you can actually appreciate most things for what they are.
You can inhale the air of the air.
It is just you, breathing the breath of life. Alone, but alive.
Beautiful, shallow and perpetually inadequate.
Monday, August 27, 2018
Letter to T. (August 27, 2018)
Dear T.,
I think that I originally came to Dresden this summer in the hope of rekindling the more intimate connection we once had. I leave now without having achieved that, but I also leave with different perspectives.
It is clear that we are the same kind of territorial existentialists who would prefer to adjust as little as possible for each other when sustaining a relationship, and that it would have been impossible to have a conventional, live-in arrangement. It was clear that a long-distance connection was the ideal way for us to be physically distant yet close in the heart. And it is clear that it was my fault that such an arrangement could not be sustained between us.
I continue to be intrigued by the beauty of your mind, T. I still consider you as much more than a friend. It is hard to stop dreaming of holding you tight in my arms with my fingers wrapped around your back, and your chest pressed against mine. I would not pursue to keep you in the fingers of my conversation everyday if I did not yearn to have you by my side.
It has been hard to decide whether it is good for me to return and it has been hard for me to acknowledge that the past cannot be reassembled. It is a pain that persists unnoticed, which only attacks during the sober silence of self-awareness. But to me the preciousness of the experiences we share is greater than the heartache of accepting that no more intimacy could be garnered.
The enchantment of the Zweisamkeit is effervescent and indulgent, indeed, but we know that the true peace of mind for the independent individual is achieved purely from within. The intrinsic existential satisfaction may be garnished further with the company of someone whose form and mind delight the senses and the heart. The redamancy and its rarity has contributed to the eternal value of the connection we share.
I would say I have been partially enlightened. I have appreciated the different levels of mindfulness and the times when which is appropriate. Adapting the intellectual arrogance of those who can comprehend and express the wonder of nostalgia and the power of silence, I am thankful for a new level of self-awareness, which vests me with greater power in managing my own sense of ease with the living world around me, mitigating the hostility which I suspect leads to indirect psychosomatic anxiety, which I suspect is also indirectly fueled by my narcissism. It is valuable for me to be away from the external comfort of my family, but still in a home away from home that is Dresden, to realise my inner disequilibrium.
The quest for a greater sense of Geborgenheit could be a lifelong one. I am aware of the materialistic-existential conundrum; I am too intelligent to pretend it is not there. I acknowledge that what I value most is to stare deep into someone’s eyes, to feel the wind blowing through my hair, to sense the sun radiating onto my arms and to notice the water flowing over my hands. To this I can say that I will intend to have a penthouse to better appreciate the sky and a yacht to better appreciate the sea. It is so hard to eliminate the hatred and the arrogance, which are widespread among those with whom I have grown up. The indefinitely-arrogant will never realise the pretentiousness, and the never-arrogant will never realise the struggle. I am so blessed to have witnessed both sides, the materialistic delight and the existential satisfaction. It may be easier for many people who will never see the other side, who are too unintelligent or who are too stubborn: the poor who are uninspired to explore the greatness of the world that awaits, and the rich who fail to recognize that the best things are free and have always been there.
Why is it so incomprehensibly rare for people to be truly both materialistic and existential, to be conventionally successful and spiritually-obliged, to be a patron of the sciences and of the arts? I am thankful to be able to comprehend, practice and value all the opposites, but it is makes it harder to decide where to go.
It would be so divine to be with you. But I think I could, for your benefit, consider it even more precious for me to be confronted with the stimulus that you have given and not to be with you. An eternal calling to seek a better awareness of life through understanding existence through science and appreciating existence through art. I am grateful to have fallen in love with you, because it has made me fall in love with the totality of the tangible world and the intangible world.
I think that I originally came to Dresden this summer in the hope of rekindling the more intimate connection we once had. I leave now without having achieved that, but I also leave with different perspectives.
It is clear that we are the same kind of territorial existentialists who would prefer to adjust as little as possible for each other when sustaining a relationship, and that it would have been impossible to have a conventional, live-in arrangement. It was clear that a long-distance connection was the ideal way for us to be physically distant yet close in the heart. And it is clear that it was my fault that such an arrangement could not be sustained between us.
I continue to be intrigued by the beauty of your mind, T. I still consider you as much more than a friend. It is hard to stop dreaming of holding you tight in my arms with my fingers wrapped around your back, and your chest pressed against mine. I would not pursue to keep you in the fingers of my conversation everyday if I did not yearn to have you by my side.
It has been hard to decide whether it is good for me to return and it has been hard for me to acknowledge that the past cannot be reassembled. It is a pain that persists unnoticed, which only attacks during the sober silence of self-awareness. But to me the preciousness of the experiences we share is greater than the heartache of accepting that no more intimacy could be garnered.
The enchantment of the Zweisamkeit is effervescent and indulgent, indeed, but we know that the true peace of mind for the independent individual is achieved purely from within. The intrinsic existential satisfaction may be garnished further with the company of someone whose form and mind delight the senses and the heart. The redamancy and its rarity has contributed to the eternal value of the connection we share.
I would say I have been partially enlightened. I have appreciated the different levels of mindfulness and the times when which is appropriate. Adapting the intellectual arrogance of those who can comprehend and express the wonder of nostalgia and the power of silence, I am thankful for a new level of self-awareness, which vests me with greater power in managing my own sense of ease with the living world around me, mitigating the hostility which I suspect leads to indirect psychosomatic anxiety, which I suspect is also indirectly fueled by my narcissism. It is valuable for me to be away from the external comfort of my family, but still in a home away from home that is Dresden, to realise my inner disequilibrium.
The quest for a greater sense of Geborgenheit could be a lifelong one. I am aware of the materialistic-existential conundrum; I am too intelligent to pretend it is not there. I acknowledge that what I value most is to stare deep into someone’s eyes, to feel the wind blowing through my hair, to sense the sun radiating onto my arms and to notice the water flowing over my hands. To this I can say that I will intend to have a penthouse to better appreciate the sky and a yacht to better appreciate the sea. It is so hard to eliminate the hatred and the arrogance, which are widespread among those with whom I have grown up. The indefinitely-arrogant will never realise the pretentiousness, and the never-arrogant will never realise the struggle. I am so blessed to have witnessed both sides, the materialistic delight and the existential satisfaction. It may be easier for many people who will never see the other side, who are too unintelligent or who are too stubborn: the poor who are uninspired to explore the greatness of the world that awaits, and the rich who fail to recognize that the best things are free and have always been there.
Why is it so incomprehensibly rare for people to be truly both materialistic and existential, to be conventionally successful and spiritually-obliged, to be a patron of the sciences and of the arts? I am thankful to be able to comprehend, practice and value all the opposites, but it is makes it harder to decide where to go.
It would be so divine to be with you. But I think I could, for your benefit, consider it even more precious for me to be confronted with the stimulus that you have given and not to be with you. An eternal calling to seek a better awareness of life through understanding existence through science and appreciating existence through art. I am grateful to have fallen in love with you, because it has made me fall in love with the totality of the tangible world and the intangible world.
Friday, April 27, 2018
Unrequited love (April 27, 2018)
If you have never experienced the concomitant beauty and pain of unrequited love, then, indeed, you have never lived. The settings of the experiences that you recall do not matter, and it is, in fact, just the presence of that person which made the experiences worth remembering. It is overwhelming to think that someone means so much to you, it is so powerful and so compelling that it makes you think that it is right.
It fills you with a continual obsession, an unhealthy obsession for someone who is enchanting, but who you know, through sense, is not right. It drowns you in a spiral of self-pity, a self-pity that does not know why the infatuation is not returned, a self-pity that hopes it could be returned. It suffocates you in an unworthy hope, a hope that someday it could be returned, that someday it could be again like it was on the first and second times you met.
Every insignificant detail is recalled because you have believed that those insignificant details are satisfying to recall, but instead every aspect of them now welcomes a haunting of the past and facilitates its encroachment into your enjoyment of the present. In fact, it is not that person who means anything to you at all, it is the idea of that person which is worth something. The actions of that person, their sins against you and the inferiority they have expressed to you seem not to matter at all, because one can only think about the person at their best. The image of his perfection and his intellect is immortalised in the mind forever, and even though he and time destroy that idea every day, the idea is still perfectly preserved in your mind.
The only thing that did matter in the first place was your perception of that person’s mind. There are far more physically attractive people whose paths cross you every day. But your perception that he was incredibly intelligent and profoundly intellectual, and therefore in some way unique and special, is what drove the obsession and the craze. Instead of the excellence of beauty being appreciated in him, you appraised the idiosyncratic beauty, the idea that he looked different. In turn, one can begin to appreciate and appraise anything for its uniquity, despite its true worthlessness.
The burden of having to continually think of him becomes a strain, an impediment to your satisfaction which may otherwise be achieved. The worst part is that one continues to relapse with the unworthy hope, considering again and again, a long time later, that perhaps it could work.
It seems so wonderful to delight in the craze that he has instilled, a longing to live and a drive to change yourself because you think that one day he might like you because you have become a better person. It is hard for you to realise that he, too, remains forever with an idea of you, and that no matter how much you change, he still will only see the original identity of you. That identity of which he is now scared, from which he tries to run away, because you threaten to suffocate him with your desires, your hopes and your farfetched dreams.
You can only begin to see yourself as too passionate, because it seems somewhat justified to chase after him, because you think you want him, and that he will make you feel complete.
Interestingly, you can also remember the times you were especially alone, in those times the setting around you did matter because it made you reinspect upon the meaning of your own existence. Perhaps at one point you could even consider that you were strong enough to move forward and value yourself, and not return to sit inside the painful trap, but this notion was soon erased when you began to think of him again.
It becomes a cycle of busying yourself with a new love interest, who never seems to fully replace the original him, whereby you still think of him sometimes. And because you are never ready to let go of the idea of him, you never let these new people touch your soul, because you are convinced that no one could ever be as intellectually incredible or as unique has him. In-turn, it only stops you from replacing him. Discarding others only strengthens the idea of him, preventing others from ever being able to make you truly happy.
Then, one day you find someone new who you have little hope in, but you try it out. For a first, you attempt to discard the thought of him truly. It doesn’t really happen. But the memories are weaker. You are happier in the moment, and you seem to create new memories that are worth remembering. Sometimes, of course, you need to have a look back on the idea of him. But you must never indulge in the idea of him, otherwise you plunge into a vicious cycle of nostalgia.
Nostalgia is absolutely beautiful, so beautiful that you want to enjoy it all the time. But it is the absolute trap and the main impediment to your happiness in the moment. I do not need a movie to encompass my feelings, because I can express them myself. The days you go back to the very same places that you were with him hurt even more. Stepping back into the aura of the lobby of the InterContinental Düsseldorf, the warmth of the memories of December 2016 flow back and hit you, and the Christmas decorations are back in place. (You, too, have a hotel, which you have seen in every season, where the staff know your greed and the rooms know your secrets.) The receptionist hands you back the letter containing the 16-page envelope that you wrote for him, and you realise that he never bothered to pick it up. You are reminded of the unworthy hopes you had, you re-read the letter, and you relapse.
It does get better, but only if you make it better for yourself. Do not move on hopeful; move on with certainty. The memories are too idyllic to discard. Indeed, unrequited love never dies, and instead it fades, much like lives, which we cannot save, but which we can prolong. There is no someday maybe we would perhaps be friends, because it is not like that. Because the nostalgia is too beautiful that it needs to be relived. It is not quantum mechanics, hopes cannot be burning in passion and extinguished with disinterest at the same time... maybe the hopes can exist so in one’s optimistic mind, but between two realists, they cannot.
It fills you with a continual obsession, an unhealthy obsession for someone who is enchanting, but who you know, through sense, is not right. It drowns you in a spiral of self-pity, a self-pity that does not know why the infatuation is not returned, a self-pity that hopes it could be returned. It suffocates you in an unworthy hope, a hope that someday it could be returned, that someday it could be again like it was on the first and second times you met.
Every insignificant detail is recalled because you have believed that those insignificant details are satisfying to recall, but instead every aspect of them now welcomes a haunting of the past and facilitates its encroachment into your enjoyment of the present. In fact, it is not that person who means anything to you at all, it is the idea of that person which is worth something. The actions of that person, their sins against you and the inferiority they have expressed to you seem not to matter at all, because one can only think about the person at their best. The image of his perfection and his intellect is immortalised in the mind forever, and even though he and time destroy that idea every day, the idea is still perfectly preserved in your mind.
The only thing that did matter in the first place was your perception of that person’s mind. There are far more physically attractive people whose paths cross you every day. But your perception that he was incredibly intelligent and profoundly intellectual, and therefore in some way unique and special, is what drove the obsession and the craze. Instead of the excellence of beauty being appreciated in him, you appraised the idiosyncratic beauty, the idea that he looked different. In turn, one can begin to appreciate and appraise anything for its uniquity, despite its true worthlessness.
The burden of having to continually think of him becomes a strain, an impediment to your satisfaction which may otherwise be achieved. The worst part is that one continues to relapse with the unworthy hope, considering again and again, a long time later, that perhaps it could work.
It seems so wonderful to delight in the craze that he has instilled, a longing to live and a drive to change yourself because you think that one day he might like you because you have become a better person. It is hard for you to realise that he, too, remains forever with an idea of you, and that no matter how much you change, he still will only see the original identity of you. That identity of which he is now scared, from which he tries to run away, because you threaten to suffocate him with your desires, your hopes and your farfetched dreams.
You can only begin to see yourself as too passionate, because it seems somewhat justified to chase after him, because you think you want him, and that he will make you feel complete.
Interestingly, you can also remember the times you were especially alone, in those times the setting around you did matter because it made you reinspect upon the meaning of your own existence. Perhaps at one point you could even consider that you were strong enough to move forward and value yourself, and not return to sit inside the painful trap, but this notion was soon erased when you began to think of him again.
It becomes a cycle of busying yourself with a new love interest, who never seems to fully replace the original him, whereby you still think of him sometimes. And because you are never ready to let go of the idea of him, you never let these new people touch your soul, because you are convinced that no one could ever be as intellectually incredible or as unique has him. In-turn, it only stops you from replacing him. Discarding others only strengthens the idea of him, preventing others from ever being able to make you truly happy.
Then, one day you find someone new who you have little hope in, but you try it out. For a first, you attempt to discard the thought of him truly. It doesn’t really happen. But the memories are weaker. You are happier in the moment, and you seem to create new memories that are worth remembering. Sometimes, of course, you need to have a look back on the idea of him. But you must never indulge in the idea of him, otherwise you plunge into a vicious cycle of nostalgia.
Nostalgia is absolutely beautiful, so beautiful that you want to enjoy it all the time. But it is the absolute trap and the main impediment to your happiness in the moment. I do not need a movie to encompass my feelings, because I can express them myself. The days you go back to the very same places that you were with him hurt even more. Stepping back into the aura of the lobby of the InterContinental Düsseldorf, the warmth of the memories of December 2016 flow back and hit you, and the Christmas decorations are back in place. (You, too, have a hotel, which you have seen in every season, where the staff know your greed and the rooms know your secrets.) The receptionist hands you back the letter containing the 16-page envelope that you wrote for him, and you realise that he never bothered to pick it up. You are reminded of the unworthy hopes you had, you re-read the letter, and you relapse.
It does get better, but only if you make it better for yourself. Do not move on hopeful; move on with certainty. The memories are too idyllic to discard. Indeed, unrequited love never dies, and instead it fades, much like lives, which we cannot save, but which we can prolong. There is no someday maybe we would perhaps be friends, because it is not like that. Because the nostalgia is too beautiful that it needs to be relived. It is not quantum mechanics, hopes cannot be burning in passion and extinguished with disinterest at the same time... maybe the hopes can exist so in one’s optimistic mind, but between two realists, they cannot.
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