freefall is a section in weight of words for masturbatory, practice writing, random quotes and pieces of poetry. similar to a tattoo where an artist sketches an outline first before the very illustration, freefall is an outline of either beautiful or monstrous sets of words to come.
there is something in the water and/or in the air that can afflict anyone—be they elevator operators, family drivers, spinsters, or the gay announcer you’re fond of—anytime. For the most part, it is incurable.
this is about one’s inability to love another person in an absolute and selfless way.
let me tell you something about my love for my dogs. every day, i fall head over heels in love with them. my heart melts at the sight of them. when i reach the house from work, i sink into their presence and i feel as if i’ve come home. one evening, the thought hit me: for the most part of my life, i haven’t felt this way towards other people. the closest i ever did feel this was with a couple of persons, but it still wasn’t enough. i had held back, and i am still holding back.
i first found out i was afflicted with this illness when i was killing time at figaro with a very close friend. we realized i’m at stage 2, while she’s at stage 4, the last, no-turning-back level. if anyone spied us that time, we must have looked like normal people in their 20s sharing ideas over coffee and pizza. but the reality was this: we were two zombies looking for an explanation. i didn’t dare ask my stage 4 friend what happens when you’ve claimed all the stage 4 symptoms. do you just disintegrate afterwards? is there an invisible cliff that materializes under your feet? do your senses shut down?
you know this, this dread, this gnawing emptiness within you. even if you’ve cooked for and fed your kids, even if you’ve aced that triathlon, even if you’ve wowed your staff with your speech, even if you’ve given and experienced orgasms at night, you still stare at the ceiling and wonder if that was all there is to it. you look up and wish for sheets of silver to rain upon you. that might do the trick. your amazement towards the impossible happening right before your eyes might drive you to feel more. not do more, but feel more.
but then you go about your day, and it still happens: you look at your lover, you stare at your kids, and they are eons away from you. or you are eons away from them. and you creep towards the kitchen and look for your dogs. they smell the scent of need filtering out from your pores, and obedient creatures that they are, they snuggle under your feet and lick your chin and arms. and for a moment, the heavens open up and sheets of silver rain down, and you feel it—from the soles of your feet to the tips of your hair—the closest semblance of feeding another your love. but then your dogs tire from your embrace, and you are left to do nothing but retire for the night.
in your morning commute, you wonder who else in the multitude of workers are afflicted. there is no cure, and for sure, you wouldn’t just reach out to a stranger and look for that strange glint in their right eye. but the idea of others in different stages of this illness somewhat comforts you—your lullaby that shakes off your nausea for a minute. there is comfort in walking with other dead people.
“The Other cannot be possessed, resists enjoyment, and, as the I encounters this Other, it is called back to the meaning of its freedom–a freedom which is founded by the Other and which, in this encounter, is called to responsibility and obligation towards the Other as genuine freedom.” – observations from Emmanuel Levinas’ school of thought