To whom...

 

Sometimes I want to laugh at how paradoxical everything is; just like after I wrote down the word “paradoxical” I suddenly had to confront the blankness brought up by the word; just like I write these letters in attempt to ease the ache of being separated from you, but when I feel such intense ache to see you, writing becomes just as unbearable as the separation itself.

 

Could you say the word “ache” one more time? A-che, with the vowel mellow and deep from the back of the throat, the gentle “-che” so sudden yet so expected, like falling back to the ground after a prolonged curve in the sky. It is a word that could be felt, through bodily pain and immanent longing. It is more desperate and intimate than “desire”; it is desire stripped down to pain.

 

I miss you. Missing is the absence, the negative space, the hollow repetition and reluctant lingering, m-i-ss-i-ng. Like its sound, the word evaporates in the air, and turns to dust rather than mist. I am missing something that is missing; these letters help neither but why am I still writing?

 

I write about language in language, vainly trying to capture a feeling that is beyond language, the reason why I should and should not write; wait a minute, is it still reason when it is not itself? Bataille reasoned about eroticism when it is something beyond reason, bataille indeed. I am assenting to life up to the point of death, but, la petite mort, aren’t we all suicidal?

​

Yours,