The impossible decision for the Impossible.

I am writing this as a reminder to myself. Most of all, I will admit, because it is so easily forgotten when staring into the abyss. Without detail, I have irreparably let down the person I love. I’ll waste no further words on it here, as I’m certain she won’t be reading this any more. Either way… something irreparable is done, I am shown again to be a creature of warm and selfish delusions, a lost child who doesn’t but struggles to understand the world. Its not for self-pity I write this, I’ve given myself quite enough of that.

Yet, I remember telling a friend some years ago that everything begins with disgust, especially self-disgust… that there is no greater motivation. This is wrong, it is faith that is most important. And I don’t mean faith in God or other metaphysical creatures, although my formula of faith could just well be applied to those things.

I forget this point all the time. Its a point I always remember. Eventually. They say that critique begins with doubt, this is our inheritance. And I would say I doubt. I spend a lot of time doubting. Most of all myself. I am torn by the declarations that I do not exist and I exist; there is no future and the future is emancipation; there is no God, god is something; we are passive, we are active; the collective subject is atomised, the collective subject survives; I can’t go on, I must go on. And so forth. These are the contradictions that revolve and revolve around themselves, they and many more- these merely those that come to mind most readily. They dance until their points of contradiction seem to bleed into each other and, like so many other people whose intellectual development has been so coloured by postmodernism, they become unities that play at opposition. Paradoxes that torment.

A friend of mine once told me that the most interesting thing about me is that I always have different problems, obsessions, struggles. I don’t think this is true. It is possible that really the only problem out of which all others have blossomed is summed up in this phrase; it is a phrase that came to me one day while I was walking on the Middlesex campus of Trent Park, passing the swimming pool I never saw being used, trudging down the steps towards the little library building where I seemed to spend more time searching for things to read than reading:

The impossible decision for the Impossible.

This is the meaning of faith to me. It is an as-if. A suspension of doubt in doubt’s presence. It does not end any confusion or paradox and does nothing to ease the antagonisms that still cut into us as we ignore them. This is just so I remember, ‘a far more pathological activity than forgetting.’


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