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Does it startle you sometimes when you wake up where are overwhelmed by the regaining of your consciousness? What I mean to say is, when that beam of sunlight bursts through your eyelids, or when some indefatigable sound in the early hours wakes you up, do you ever get elated? Or relieved, rather? The events I am describing occur only about two seconds after you open your eyes. For in the first second everything rushes to you, like a freight train, and you only have one measly second to assimilate everything, something like your bed saying “You are sleeping on me.” or your body saying “We are one.” Does this not bother you? In the first second you are no one, but in the next, you are your whole self again. And in the third second, while your eyes are still red and your do not yet realize that you are yourself, you gasp in some corner in your mind in the weakest voice, “She loves me.” or “Gosh, I’m alive.” Here, in this instance of consciousness slowly taking its control on you, do you feel elated, or relieved? To get to the point, are you happy that you are still alive? I myself am. Consciousness is the only thing I have to grasp. Not love or anything else. Just the consciousness I am born with.
But to take to the situation wherein love is actually taken is another thing (I’ll try to focus on this for this exercise. I’m just writing things that come to my head, by the way.). The rush I sometimes experience just after I wake up, and the thought of my being alive, and my being loved, could mean something very good. For me, that is. First of all, it could mean that man is primarily good. Now let’s not get to definition deconstruction. My block mates do this so many times it disgusts me. Let us not focus on the terminologies used but how they are used in the context. Since the context only accentuates these terms we make up, then let the context speak for itself. Now, what does the thought of her loving you signify, in this situation of “slowly getting up”?
It could mean that the thought of others is first among man’s search for life. I’m going Hegel and Sartre here. Hegel tells of dialectical idealism, while Sartre talks of consciousness as a consciousness of things other than the self. How are these two related? Well, I don’t think there is much to it. And for this, I am currently trying to make a way. This is philosophy. Laging “meron.” (Yes, there always is.). And in advance for this reckless act of intellectual debauchery, I would like to ask for forgiveness from all philosophers I’ve disgraced through this rambling. Now, when we sleep and dream, we experience a one-ness. This means that there is non-dialecticity. There is no way for you to know otherwise because there is no “other.” If we use magnets as examples here, we could say that there is a north pole, but no south pole.
What happens then? No order, I’d say. And since there is that deviation from the routine systems by our consciousness, we take on chaos, as our dreams show. What interests me here is the usual excess of emotions like love and sadness during the dream-state. There is hyperbola in the triteness we see in our dreams. When I saw my lover once in the dreams I have, her face was clear to the scar she had on her nape. Her face shone on an auburn background while eyes were so subtly seductive I was annoyed. Of course I could not help but smile. How could I not, in front of a sunset by the lonesome beach for two? Does anyone notice triteness here, as if everything is indeed overly sentimental? Yes, there is non-dialecticity. And I can prove it. Jen’s face was beautiful but her heart was in a rut. So was mine. When we had coffee at Bo’s, I took our silence as a way for me to examine this idea. There have been no problems, so far.
Now, to get to love. I will do that another time. It’s just that there seems to be no other way for a man to get people to listen to him if we were not to talk about love? Love is not even a state; it’s merely commitment with more responsibility. There the whole biological attraction underneath that all. It’s just that love is so, so high school. Love is too childish, now that I think about it. That idealism found in Hegel can be applied there, but let us take Freud in here with his concept of the ego. As the guy writes a poem to channel his desires, but also give pleasure to the id, he goes into the “love” state, wherein there is no one else but him and the feeling. The girl he yearns for is placed in a pedestal he cannot reach, but is right next to him. All the embraces the kisses, the slurry languages that accompany that merely play with the image of the woman. And that disregards the reality of it all.
When the man thinks of getting it in with a woman he is crazy with, it may not be the thought of loving the woman, but it may be the thought of loving a woman. I may not be right here, though. Maybe the need to love is lesser than the need to commit? To love would mean to fantasize lustfully subtly with the image of the beloved, and even with the beloved, but it’s all, how shall I say this, too short. Commitment is longer. I am sorry to waste your time by reading this rambling.
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