Expired relationships grieve me, their ghosts linger, but it's not them I miss. It's the selves I built inside those spaces, shadows shaped by their gaze. I never saw them, only the version of me they mirrored back. I crafted my reflection, and in that crafting, lost sight of who they became. What did I miss? I clung to those versions of myself as if they were threads holding me together, but they were illusions, fabrications. This is my confession—for seeing only my own image in them, not the truth of who they were. But I will no longer mourn these expired selves. No more ghosts. No more wounds.
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As existence precedes essence, life precedes meaning. Life, raw and untamed, takes precedence over any constructed purpose, over any notion of an ultimate meaning that neither exists nor can exist. Life, primary and intrinsic, while meanings and purposes are but shadows cast by human consciousness, fragile constructs. When we subordinate life to some imagined ultimate meaning, it becomes a tool, a servant to that which we have made up. Suffering, especially the innocent suffering of children, is said to serve this ultimate goal. But no—suffering has no goal, no purpose. The universe moves on, indifferent to our pain. Suffering asks questions, deeper questions, pushing us to value life above the search for answers. It is a catalyst, not a step. To seek a meaning "of" suffering is a futile act, an echo of our futile search for the meaning of life itself. We craft meanings "in" our suffering, perhaps to soothe ourselves, to make sense of what shakes us, but in doing so, we place life first, where it belongs. The Buddha spoke of suffering first, offering a view not of salvation, but of skillful living in a world of impermanence. Life is fragile, inconstant, always changing—this is not a flaw, but the very fabric of existence. In our struggle to bear this truth, we reach for something greater, something beyond. We create gods, higher purposes, but these are no more than hypotheses. None can be proven, none can truly protect us from the reality that all life perishes. And so, I choose not to demand faith. I accept the perishability of life—aging, illness, death. These are not barriers, but the ground beneath our feet. Faced with this truth, we have three choices: to ignore it and invent comforts, to sink into nihilism where nothing matters, or to stay, right here, within the boundaries of life itself.
나는 이미 만들어진 서사다. 과거로부터 이어진 현재의 모든 전통과 문화 안에 종족 보전을 위해 길들여진다. 만들어진 신을 만나고 그 신을 추앙하거나 부정하거나 믿거나 말거나. 이미 짜여진 판 속에서 삶의 목적과 의미라는 미명 아래 존재의 쓸모가 정해진다. 그 안에서 행복과 불행을 느끼고 이 몸뚱이가 드러내는 삶 그 자체는 착각 속에서 잊혀지고 죽어간다. 죽음은 삶의 목적과 의미라 부른 모든 것이 부질없음을 폭로한다. 종교의 내세에 대한 가르침은 죽음의 입에 물린 자갈이다. “이 자갈을 먹는 자는 영생을 얻으리라!” 나는 자갈을 게워낸다. 이 만들어진 서사를 철저히 해부하려는 욕망은 가히 성스러운 일이다! 나는 '나'라는 자의식, 정체성은 주어진 서사 안에서 만들어져 이렇게 조작된 나로 살다가 죽길 거부한다. 나의 이야기는 내가 누구냐를 말해주지 않는다. 미화된 기억에 의해 내가 이해하는 나를 내가 어떻게 각색시키는 지 보여줄 뿐이다. 내 기억에 의존해 내가 나를 만든다. (아담을 창조한 건 아담이다.) 그래서 나는 나를 위해 나를 해체한다. 나는 내가 아니다. 다만 외부를 재료삼아 나를 만들어내는 마음이다. 마음도 아니다. 다만 마음이 기생한 몸이다. 몸도 아니다. 다만 몸을 구성하는 60조의 세포다. 세포도 아니다. 다만 다름을 구분하는 지각(sentience)이다. 지각도 아니다. 다만 생명, 이 알 수 없는 생명이다. 생명도 아니다. 다만 자기 보존을 향한 욕망(conatus)만 있을 뿐. 이렇게 나는 나에게 타인이 되고 이 타인은 서늘함의 틈을 유지한 동무가 된다.
You are born into this body, a landscape where the self is born. Think of it as a world, raw materials already present—your face, your organs, your legs, your arms, your genitals. But not just that. Thoughts and feelings, shaped by senses, molded by the concepts and categories learned from the social web you’re thrown in, the air of culture you breathe. Patterns emerge, take root, become you. This is who you think you are, the story of your self. A personality, the aggregation of thoughts, a weave of feelings spun from all that was given and all that you became. You believe this pattern is the essence of you, the core. You carry this illusion like a shell, firm, substantial. You despair when cracked. You boast when puffed up. But what if you realized it’s all an old illusion—built for survival, for ease? The self, the eternal question, whether it exists or not, it falls away. The self is only a tool, a way to walk among others, a function in the human dance. Each moment offers a choice—follow the patterns laid before you, walk the path carved by all you thought you were, or break free. In the familiar, you find security. But in release, in letting go of the self you build, freedom finds you that is
not-you. Lonely? Have a fruit
Bananas ripen in time Fruit flies land on you Hate not fear itself
For it has protected you But fear not bullies Not quite there as she
Expected to live on but Leaps soft on full moon Years spent in loose knots Untied, yet full moon shines through Sanctifying the ring Entwined how and why
Why is made, how is given Agony reborn Jesus should’ve asked Not why forsaken, but how Cross is made for him Not what ought to be,
but what simply is. In this is, breath moves unnoticed, unbound, carrying quiet light’s dance-- with gravity of is. In stillness remains not the search for meaning, but the quiet pulse of is. In silence fills what is already here: complete and enough, free of “what ifs” and so many “I”s-- only what is is. Once again, that holy day--
Maundy, mandatum, mandated-- arrives to wash the feet of those the chosen deem in need of their hands. Yet no priest of high order washes feet like their teacher. Only my immigrant eommas do. They know not Jesus well but George-- whose face is folded, smudged, sweated, wrinkled. Soaking, scrubbing, massaging, clipping, polishing, painting-- the feet and nail tips for tips, tending their flock-- sheltering, feeding, clothing, schooling, mandating, mandating, mandating. They mandate themselves to the task, silently, shamelessly, not just on Holy Thursday but every Thursday, and every unholy day, with broken tongues. That’s what a god would do if it were human. * Eomma is the Korean word for mom. |
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