I know, too. I am staying here because I am sometimes a fathefucking weirdo with seventyeight personalities, several abominations and resignations to Others and laws and expectations that make me brittle; that I am weak on my knees despite all my wordly brouhahas and lenghty rejoinders to an angst-ridden, yet collapsing civilization.
But recognize too, no one can fall in love with words. No one. No, we do not have everything but words.Damn Jessica Zafra, damn cynically optimistic poets on the streets. We fall in love with materialities that chase even when we are silly awake and doing nothing but contemplating about empty vastnesses; we fall in love with sweaty palms we still nurture with our own; we fall in love with shadows whose contours whose forthcoming smell we recognize and die for to put in our chests. So, let us not make a fuss out of seeing each other in the spaces in this world wide web. Let us learn to dance with each other, in the roughness of roads, in the calmness of 2:33ams, in the ridiculous plasticity of everyday. Let us do away with our mantras of personal care and individual ethics, Terry Eagleton, in After Theory, sharpened my view of the objective. It is madness, almost mushy mendication for another aside from the subject, the self:
“To be concerned for another is to be present to them in the form of an absence, a certain self-forgetful attentiveness. If one is loved or trusted in return, it is largely this which gives one the self-confidence to forget about oneself, a perilous matter otherwise. (2003, 131)”
So we can always come to one another and lose ourselves, neither in dreams nor in rather crass-sounding ideological mystifications, but in the distantly familiar whom we just crave to touch, to touch with our sickness, or with our placidity. So come. Outside.