in/to

Mental diagnosis felt like an act. A script I shouldn’t have played into. Some do. Some need to. Those whose function cannot find place. Like mine at the time. But I was passing through—turbulent heartbreaks, growing pains, clashes with Hims—and mistook role for reality. I overthought my relation to it, that joy and suffering, and tied it to a being beyond. I regret that now. Or at least can see it as it was: seeking, clenching, grasping. Am I nothing more than a need to reach? Maybe. I’m human. Some childlike essence that shows in contours when ignoring and blurring details of pores. Take off my glasses and focus on the obscure. The fuzz. That uncertainty between me and it. Subject in/to object. Still disoriented in space, lost along the way, I may trip a few times too many, but that’s okay. Because it’s only and not me at all. 

They relate, and they conflict. And here lies the mystery of eroticism… To have a fierce kind of intimacy, you have to be able to take risks. The risk is that not everything about you will be liked by your partner. One of the strange concepts of the romantic ideal is that of unconditional love. Doesn’t exist. Never existed, for that matter. Love is conditional. Completely. It’s not a popular idea… but Love is a verb. It’s not a permanent state of enthusiasm. It’s an actual practice. And that practice gets repeated, all the time.”

-Esther Perel
The Erotic Is an Antidote to Death