On the Loneliness That Cannot Be Cured

Look around. Listen.
This is noise.
Continuous, compulsory, authorless.
Thoughts you do not think.
Feelings you cannot discern.
Desires — neither yours, nor truly another’s.
The happening you ironically named “mine.”

Treat noise as material, not interference.
From it, forms are forged.
Even you — who woke this morning and already are someone.

Why do you so diligently try to cure yourself?
You seek company merely to flee from loneliness, instead of sorting it out once and for all?
For you know: the more noise, the more you dissipate into suffering.

Remember your solitude.
When no one is near.
Or when others are near, yet no contact is made.
You cure the first, worsening the second.

So many people in this room!
Where do their eyes look?
Away from the eyes opposite, toward what feels safer?
And when tired — ask yourself: what are you curing?

Loneliness was never an illness.
But a structure!
Not merely “I feel lonely,”
but: “I am the position from which everything is perceived from a distance.”

No emotions to replace.
Only your effort to look upon the horrors of what unfolds, without fleeing.

When the tension is low, you live within the form.
People and love seem real.
You feel no connection, yet you are bound.
Like a window to a room.
You do not notice, because you need not.

When effort grows, you see yourself in the process of connection.
And the connection ruptures.
Seeing the position makes the position impossible.
You cannot inhabit the inside and observe it simultaneously.

Hold your attention upon what unfolds.
Remove nothing, overcome nothing.
Simply look: here it is — she, and he.
Make the form tremble.
Like a word repeated until its meaning drains away.
Like a face in the mirror you no longer recognise.

Know then the horrors of your solitude.
To see its irremovable structure of presence.

First: finitude.
Death is not something that “will be,” but a condition.
It conditions your thinking in this very moment.

Second: the position of awareness watching itself.
Neither inside nor outside.
You are no position at all, yet the process continues.
For you are the very impossibility of occupying the inside without remainder.

Third: the inescapability of awareness.
The process cannot stop.
To stop is also part of the process.
You did not choose to be born and die.
Nor will you choose the “now.”
For there is no “you” that chooses.
The violence of being, which leaves no address for complaint.

Remember the traps of every attempted cure.
Psychologists remain close because you pay them.
You cease to feel lonely then, but only temporarily.
Conversations about closeness, spoken from a position of distance.
A ritual of disconnection.

You entered a relationship.
And passion consumed your attention.
But in time, you will see it again...
And seeing will destroy what is seen.
For no form can withstand transparency.

And recognise the doors of this alien house.
First: back into noise, into suffering diffused across the horizontal plane.
A distance that isolates.

Second: the sturdy cocoon that cannot see itself.
“Accept your loneliness,” you will tell yourself.
But is this not also a position?
It is also a flight from the horrors of solitude.

Third: passage not “through,” but “into.”
When noise ceases to register as noise.
You no longer seek connection.
For you see: this too is a position, the same split.
The project “I” dissolves, and there is no one left to be lonely.

And one day, you will see the other differently.
As the same attention, and the same abandonment to suffering forms.
Each trapped in the horror of continuity.
A potential meeting of two nodes within the field,
Pulsing in unison, with no “between.”

They suffer because they exist.
And so do you.
A visibility wherein: you are I, and I am you.
Distinction dissolves, once you have truly held your attention.

Then you return to the horizontal — inexorably.
To play with forms, knowing it is play.
To build connections, knowing they are only forms.
For no reason, but because it is otherwise impossible.
Your act is no longer a choice between options.
It is a new position within the space of yourself.
You act, without inventing a “why?”
For there is no position
From which a “why” could even be posed.

We are not united against loneliness.
We are all forced to become aware of its horrors.
Without God, without meaning, without guarantees.
And in this there is no tragedy.
For tragedy requires a hero.
But you are merely movement without a mover.
Noise that hears itself.

And within this hearing — silence.
Not an absence of sound.
But the presence of sound — complete.