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Someone clever once said: the object of your desire is never present.* How wrong he was, how ever-present it can be in those idle moments when you let yourself be weak and in your weakness your mind drifts back to remembering how singularly absent solitude was from life when he was there. You remember things, even the hopeless things, the pain and cutting remarks, the assertions of ultimate incompatibility. But two fragile little egos sometimes fail to get along, is not that so? Are these assertions enough to contradict the mountain of evidence to the contrary and all those irrational, unconscious acts of love? I remember studying his face like an artist: the dark shadows in his eyes pleased and saddened me, and the inflection of every real sentence, each sentence infused with him, was a well filled with the most essential poetry.

I’ve never found love painful before. It’s painful now — his not being here, my solitude in this institution, faced with nothing but the darkest night on the eve of a birthday almost no one will remember. It’s a fantasy. Life, at this moment, does not feel real. I need to find my strength in creativity, but that’s such a lonely place too.

 

*Slavoj Zizek I believe.

5th October 2015

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