Two-years-and-seventy-seven days ago, I began writing love letters to you. As depicted by the figure below.

What is to write? To write is to reach out one hand, and to grasp the other hand that both exists and does not exist; like an embryo suspended in amniotic fluid —— never having opened its eyes or spread its arms —— nor heard a single sound or caught a whiff of scent —— yet freely swallowing the amniotic fluid —— equally enjoying its constant temperature —— enveloped without pressure by the amniotic fluid and the placenta —— and, moment by moment, guided and held by the infinitely extended umbilical cord, stochastically extending an idea —— just as a drop of rain in the mind, with unbound imagination, falls soundlessly into the ceaselessly circulating amniotic fluid —— and just as that drop of rain approaches, soundlessly, the curled legs and arms within the amniotic fluid —— and just as the legs and arms pluck, soundlessly, that drop of rain in the amniotic fluid —— and even as that instantaneous plucking silently entwines the slender neck with the lengthy umbilical cord, then reaches out stochastically from the amniotic fluid, stretches out from the placenta, extending out humanity, extending out animality, extending out Aves and fishes, extending out floras and micro-organisms, extending out time and space, extending out all things defined by language, and extending at random towards unknown species or the countless embryos not yet embraced by language, extending at random into some blind spot of the cosmos or some pain of dust, and even more so, extending at random a beckon and a wave towards the Dead Sea of Life —— as if waving to the countless reserves of fossil fuel beneath the earth’s crust and the countless plankton of prehistoric times —— and as if waving to the innumerous remnants of living creatures in rivers, lakes, seas, and the countless ashes of flora and fauna in the blue sky and white clouds —— even though those that have been left behind and consigned to oblivion are classified as having nothing to do with life —— even though this intuitive expression of the Dead Sea of Life is unwelcome within the boundaries of language —— yet it can never prevent every embryo from beckoning and waving to the Dead Sea of Life at every moment —— as if waving to the origin of life —— as if waving to the terminus of life —— and as if, at a threshold where there is neither language nor time, extending a hand to both the countless departed and the countless living —— until a faint echo arises, or until there is never any echoes at all…

Two hands, either both exist, or both doesn’t exist…

If both hands does not exist, it would be as though everything had been carried away by language, carried into the gentle breezes that drift amidst the blue sky and white clouds; every idea within each breeze would come and go softly with the wind, every impulse within each breeze would also drift away and return softly with the wind, all the passion within each breeze would be so light-weighted as to be utterly silent, and any vividness, vitality, fervor, persistence, hope, ideal, deep affection and any cherished love within each breeze would be so light-weighted as if scarcely present at all…

If both hands did exist, one hand is me —— not one of the countless me's that possess color, luster, sound, scent, temperature, humidity, length, thickness, density and angle, but sheer me; the other hand is ego —— both the I created by me in that sheer state of extending out into the sea of language and into the lake of language, it is also an alternate me discovered in those fleeting moments when I reached towards the minutiae of language or beyond its boundaries; it is yet another me that quietly discerns the prejudices and misconceptions within me through conflicting textual expressions; and it is, above all, another me capable of silently scrutinizing my narrow-mindedness and arrogance until they are left utterly ashamed…

I swirl around ego, as if countless me’s were extending out a hand towards the origin of life; this should not be innumerable hands brimming with prejudice, forming uniform gestures within the realm of language —— gestures shaped by countless prejudices —— nor should it be innumerable hands clinging to misconceptions, extending unchanging gestures within the territories of senses & perception, instinct, and consciousness —— gestures swept along by countless misconceptions —— nor should it be countless hands yielding to inertia, extending claws of unbroken lineage within the domains of genes, eukaryotic cells, and neurons —— claws governed by countless inertias; rather, it should be the hand of intuition, stripped of its shell and cleansed of all glamorous facades, extending the per usual sheerness …

Ego, too, swirls around me, as if one ego after another were extending out a hand towards life’s terminal, it is words after words, sentences after sentences, one punctuation mark after another, one black-and-white image after another, one intuitive expression after another, all reaching the same hand into the deathly silence, into the lifeless immutability and the ashen impossibility, and even more so descending into the pain of a condemned prison cell; the terminal of life —— devoid of pain —— is instead an boundless expanse of impossibility, immutability and silence, one ego after another is merely reaching out its hand —— extending the very same hand —— not the same hand-shape, nor the same hand-gesture, and certainly not the same claw-hand —— but the very same hand that must grasp pain; to grasp pain is to resist immutability and impossibility; it is to confront silence; and above all, it is to grasp sheer me.

If such writing consigns sensibility and rationality to oblivion, how is it that must remain unforgotten?

Grasp pain, for existence; or else, existence ceases.

[Unfinished. To be Continued]