Desire

Pleasure itself . . . that which would accord us (to) pure presence itself, if such a thing were possible, would be only another name for death. -Derrida


Pleasure--the drive for happiness that Plato and others have spoken about--the drive for fulfillment--for enjoyment. What kind of enjoyment? The kind--the only kind--in which time is stopped and I am me--present to me--wholly me--altogether myself. The kind in which there is no more striving--no more pushing ahead--or looking behind--in which time doesn't lead one toward an end in nothing, or from a beginning from before memory. Pleasure--the drive to recreate one's self in a way that is whole, lasting, and permanent--the drive to find a place to rest away from the scattering effects of temporality. I want to be whole. I want to be permanent. I want to rest in something eternal, unchanging, and good.

Why is it the same as death? Death is that experience--that non-experience--the only experience of which we can try to speak--that is outside of time. It is the non-moment when time no longer pushes, or pulls, or anything. It is outside--it is me--stopped--forever. In this way, pleasure leads to pure nothingness.



. . . this desire carries in itself the destiny of its non-satisfaction. -Derrida

Thus, the desire for pleasure is doomed from the beginning. We strive--all day everyday--to find the center that will hold us in place--but the only one available is the abyss--the hovering abyss that awaits. Pleasure is the contradictory desire for death--to re-create ourselves permanently--to be outside of time--that is, to be dead.


. . . the desire for presence is . . . born from the abyss. -Derrida

So, what? Despair? Back to Camus and the absurdity? Back to nihilistic anarchy? No. Well, at least not for me. Why? Well, the void--the abyss--is all I have. And, I'd lie if I didn't said I didn't love the exquisite agony of the perpetual drive for pleasure. That exquisite agony of longing to be together--to find One that could make me me for the first time--to find one way of experiencing death--not my own--but the death of temporality--without destroying myself in the process. I love the coming together and the breaking apart. The building pressure--the anticipation--the insatiability that exceeds words--exceeds time--or, at least gives one such impressions. I would lie if I said I didn't love the desire--the structure of desire--that possesses me at every second, calling me toward the One I know isn't there, the One I won't find, but the One of which I dream for so fervently.

What I am interested in is the desire for the experience of the impossible. --Derrida

That desire--the one for the impossible--for a moment in which time is destroyed and I am not. Will it ever come? Of course not. Do I want it--can I feel it shiver through my bones at ever waking second? Of course. That is the point, the structure, and the tragic beauty of desire.