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On Nothing

So I can finally write.

Though writing is not the only thing I haven't had the chance to do for what has felt like an eternity. There's reading, too, and watching DVDs, drinking in the afternoon, seeing some relatives and friends, and, perhaps, most sorely missed is taking those long naps with neither plan nor concern as to what time I shall wake up. Yes, it's semestral break; and you thought only students look forward to these breathers.

Not that I crawled my way to the break. Actually--and thank God--I was surprised that my first semester back was fairly, well, ordinary, for lack of a better word. Of course, it was tiring: getting your body back to the rhythm of teaching; preparing for lessons almost all morning like a rookie; acquainting myself to teaching in another school as well, and so going from one to the other twice a week; and fighting off those terrible hangovers--well, at least some things did not change.

Throw in some extra work for the department and for my parents, which started with making logos and posters and went as far as creating packaging for extra virgin coconut oil soaps; now that's what I call fun. Yet again, surprisingly, it was like I never went away--it felt more like a sabbatical, a retreat, a deep sleep--and went back without missing a step, ending even with a smile. Though to be sure, that was mainly because of the great help and support of family, friends and colleagues without whom, perhaps again, I couldn't have transitioned.

Yes, I like that word, "transitioned." For all transitions are leaps, from one peak to another, turns from one way to another; as such, transitions are very much difficult (it could break you, leave you lost) yet at the same time, very much necessary (for to stay would have broken you more, making it otherwise impossible to find yourself again). I transitioned. But from what to what, from where to where, from better to worse or vice versa--these remain unanswered. But, like Heidegger says, what lasts is the way.


Never mind about me; I really hate writing about myself--I almost want to delete the vain paragraph before this. Which makes this so-called "blog" paradoxical. "Blogs" are originally supposed to log the different events that so-called persons go through, much like the logbook of the bored security guard by the entrance, taking note of everything that enters and leaves, hoping that someday, what he writes down can come in handy, though most of the time, it is just a waste of ink and time.

You could say that this is a "blog" like any other blog: in it, you, too, as I can also at times, read my vanity--for how to speak without speaking about yourself, though not directly, but speaking in the place of the "I," the subject who experiences what goes in and leaves? Though I try as best as I can to not use the word "I," everything written down here comes from my "I"--not in the sense that I pretend to be original, that I thought all of these down, or that this is a repository of "my" thoughts--to the contrary. These are, again I remind you dear reader, simple marks on the way, pathmarks, as it were, on the way to, precisely, the Lichtung, or the clearing. Or better yet: these are marks on the way back from the clearing, after my turn or Kehre, after the flashing I've seen or experienced some two years ago. These are, in a word, what I saw--or what I see because of what I saw.

Again, I hate the paragraph I've written: it's pretentious, a poor imitation of the thinking of a philosopher I admire, even a self-mystification. No worry, these do not matter. Not because this space is "mine." This is, on the contrary, not mine. Again, nothing here comes from me--"We do not come to thoughts, they come to us, as Heidegger reminds us. These thoughts only pass through me, or pass me as I pass them; I simply mark them, or here, write them down.

For what purpose? you may ask. Is it to remember, or, vaguer still, to be remembered? To answer: I still do not know the answer to that question. On one fine day some two years ago I just started to write here with (a petty) or without a reason. I hesitate to say that someone told me, or called upon me to write. Now you already think I'm hearing voices. (All the voices we here in our head are ourselves talking; or, what comes to the same, are others talking through ourselves.) Those who write just write and do not talk about why they had to write. That's all I have to say about that.

Why this tone now?--a far cry from the indifferent, detached or even professorial tone heard in the other essays here. Well, I just feel like speaking now. I don't like to think this afternoon. You see, no one's home now; everybody's off to somewhere and I had the house to my self.

I had been bored all day. And in a terrifying instant this afternoon, I suddenly felt the weight of being alone. Then the tears came. So I write here to fight them off.


  1. as always, this has been a nice read. no, make that enlightening (= i can very much relate with the transition part...

  2. hey, yvaughn. hope things are going well for you. thanks and glad to know you're still there. all the best.


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