perhaps unaware of the events that would take place after that fateful drunken day, she let herself slip into an inevitable deterioration, a collapse embellished by an absurd sadness, apathy, empty spaces and sickness. and upon reading kierkegaard’s mortal sickness she was almost drawn (amongst the dregs of another banal day) in a tangible parallel world of complete, utter despair, kierkegaardian despair, the one that is directed not towards death (the fear of dying), but towards life (the desperation of not being able to die). and there she is in time: all around her like a thick slippery substance, an unctuous membrane of impossibility. choking, unmoving time, so slow that it would be quicker to watch grass grow.
the subjectivity of time.
and there she is, huddled up in the last few days of her twentythird year of life, after a stretch of months and days that have lost all their temporality, that have become a temporal extension of herself, as if nothing before it all ever existed, blocked in an omnipresent time, pinned down in this precise lieu and instant, divided between lover and friend and sister and brother… in minuscule pieces of a frozen picture. who said that everything is aesthetic? how pathetically convenient.
la palpabilita’ del tempo, la palpabilita’ dell’altro
the touchability of the other, the touchability of time. time, naked time…
and yet this apathic melancholy opens the heart, stretches it out painfully. but the spirit does not recognize itself, as kierkegaard said, before god, as created being, so that the depair intensifies. a despair that has not yet exhausted its function, that perhaps will never exhaust its function, that some would say does not have a function at all. but that’s as pathetically evasive as saying that everything is aesthetic. Oh my goodness sometimes it feels as if all these interior organs will burst and splatter. splatter art, they would call it.
i must get out more.