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[sergeantselfish]

April 19, 2020

Transcript of an excerpt from an edX video entitled “Doing The Right Thing” of the Justice course taught by Prof. Michael Sandel. For context, I hated Philo 1 so much because there were never any answers to any of the questions posed by my professor. I now understand that that is exactly the essence of philosophy: not to merely be skeptical but to question a question, and to never stop asking.

“If you look at the syllabus, you'll notice that we read a number of great and famous books. Books by Aristotle, John Locke, Immanuel Kant, John Stuart Mill, and others. You'll notice too from the syllabus that we don't only read these books, we also all take up contemporary political and legal controversies that raise philosophical questions.

We will debate equality and inequality, affirmative action, free speech versus hate speech, same sex marriage, military conscription, a range of practical questions not just to enliven these abstract and distant books but to make clear to bring out what's at stake in our everyday lives including our political lives, for philosophy.

So we will read these books and we will debate these issues and we'll see how each informs and illuminates the other. This may sound appealing enough but here I have to issue a warning. And the warning is this: to read these books in this way, as an exercise in self-knowledge, to read them in this way carry certain risks - risks that are both personal and political, risks that every student of political philosophy have known. These risks spring from that fact that philosophy teaches us and unsettles us by confronting us with what we already know.

There's an irony. The difficulty of this course consists in the fact that it teaches what you already know. It works by taking what we know from familiar unquestioned settings and making it strange. That's how those examples worked: the hypotheticals with which we began with their mix of playfulness and sobriety. It's also how these philosophical books work.

Philosophy estranges us from the familiar - not by supplying new information but by inviting and provoking a new way of seeing. But, and here's the risk: once the familiar turns strange, it's never quite the same again. Self-knowledge is like lost innocence. However unsettling you find it, it can never be unthought or unknown. What makes this enterprise difficult but also riveting is that moral and political philosophy is a story and you don't know where this story will lead, but what you do know is that the story is about you. Those are the personal risks. Now what of the political risks?

One way of introducing of course like this would be to promise you that by reading these books and debating these issues, you will become a better, more responsible citizen. You will examine the presuppositions of public policy. You will hone your political judgment. You'll become a more effective participant in public affairs. But this would be a partial and misleading promise. Political philosophy, for the most part, hasn't worked that way. You have to allow for the possibility that political philosophy may make you a worse citizen rather than a better one, or at least a worse citizen before it makes you a better one. And that's because philosophy is a distancing, even debilitating, activity. And you see this going back to Socrates.

There's a dialogue, the Gorgias, in which one of Socrates’ friends Callicles tries to talk him out of philosophizing. Callicles tells Socrates: “Philosophy is a pretty toy if one indulges in it with moderation at the right time of life, but if one pursues it further than one should, it is absolute ruin.” Take my advice, Callicles says, abandon argument, learn the accomplishments of active life, take for your models, not those people who spend their time on these petty quibbles, but those who have a good livelihood and reputation and many other blessings. So Calicles is really saying to Socrates: quit philosophizing, get real, go to business school, and Callicles did have a point. He had a point because philosophy distances us from conventions, from established assumptions, and from settled beliefs.

Those are the risks, personal and political and in the face of these risks there is a characteristic evasion, The name of the evasion is skepticism. It's the idea - well it goes something like this - we didn't resolve, once and for all, either the cases or the principles we were arguing when we began. And if Aristotle and Locke and Kant and Mill haven't solved these questions after all of these years, who are we to think that we here in Sanders Theatre over the course a semester can resolve them? And so maybe it's just a matter of each person having his or her own principles and there's nothing more to be said about it. No way of reasoning - that's the evasion, the evasion of skepticism. To which I would offer the following reply: it's true these questions have been debated for a very long time, but the very fact that they have reoccurred and persisted may suggest that though they're impossible in one sense, they’re unavoidable in another. And the reason they're unavoidable - the reason they're inescapable - is that we live some answer to these questions every day. So skepticism, just throwing up their hands and giving up on moral reflection, is no solution.

Immanuel Kant described very well the problem with skepticism when he wrote: “Skepticism is a resting place for human reason, where it can reflect upon its dogmatic wanderings but it is no dwelling place for permanent settlement.” Simply to acquiesce in skepticism, Kant wrote, can never suffice to overcome the restless of reason. I've tried to suggest through theses stories and these arguments some sense of the risks and temptations of the perils and the possibilities. I would simply conclude by saying that the aim of this course is to awaken the restlessness of reason and to see where it might lead. Thank you very much.”

[sergeantselfish]

October 9, 2019

On nights like this, it’s much harder to breathe.

I want to kill myself without actually killing myself. 

[sergeantselfish]

September 7, 2019

Holy shit I’m so burned out, you don’t even know.

[sergeantselfish]

August 24, 2019

I always forget that it’s fine to weep.

My heart becomes a fist-sized knot that tightens up as it drags the rope embedded upon the top of my chest. I just want to breathe. I need to breathe.

Sometimes I wonder what’s left of the stories I stacked at the back of my head. They were all uncovered. I just didn’t want to keep reading. So I hid them.

I want to stop leaving. I want to be in it. I want to go through it. I want to make something out of nothing, even though I am nothing.

Nobody knows who they are and I share the same fate. I don’t know what I’ll be or how I am, but all I know is that I need to cry.

I no longer want to. But I need to. To keep this rope out of my airway and keep my heart as it is. I wonder when that could be.

[sergeantselfish]

July 24, 2019

I’ve come to realize that I have been constantly underestimating myself this whole time I was in college. For 10 months, I could not bring myself to do this and that because I thought I was dumber than everybody else in UP. This is typical of me in new environments. The same happened when I was in MTG, the same in competitions, and joining new organizations. Nevertheless, I didn’t see my capabilities until my grades came out. It was only in UP that I got the highest score in a long exam. It was also only in UP where I kept acing a lot of my essays and speech performances. At the end of every sem, it dawns on me that with a slight push, I could have gotten a higher grade or a better mark. And it is oftentimes that fear of not being enough that makes a difference. With this realization, I think it’s finally time for me to put myself out there. I need to join new orgs, accept orgwork, meet new people, and really build myself up as an inependent college student. I have been putting myself in a safe zone for such a long time that now I do not know if I can do better than everybody else. I know I’m brave. I just need to remember where I got my bravery from in high school and I think I will be fine. 

[sergeantselfish]

April 8, 2017

My bones were not made to break at the sound of your voice. My hands should not shake at the break of dawn when you kiss me goodbye. These lips are not red – like the color of my sins – if I were not to lie. But the frailty in my skin is starting to show itself again. I have accustomed my veins to deny raw sentiment but I feel like a fool for taming the eternally wild. My body has grown tired of constantly battling this fortitude to always substantiate my desires. Right now, you are my only desire; and if my body should fight what my mind does not allow, I shall let it be. That is my pledge. That is how I surrender.

P.S. It is worth noting that I was itching to write the first line down while riding the jeepney from UP to my house. I had to grab my G-tec and write it down on my palm.

[sergeantselfish]

March 31, 2017

Let me write about you when I’m bold and tired and bleeding, not when I’m wrapped in your arms and the world feels just a little bit warmer than an hour before. Let me kiss you when I run out of things to do, not when it’s 3 am and every corner of the room is bored and barren. Let me fall like I don’t know what it’s like to be touched by a boy and end up with nothing. If it is convincing enough that after all that I’ve lost, I still can’t distinguish between a truth and a lie then let me believe you, love, when you do not want me to try. Let me love you when it’s inconvenient, when you think it’s a mistake. You should trust me when I say that I know what a mistake tastes like, how a complete mistake breathes, and why a mistake would still want to be with me even when he knows that he is and I am and we are (all mistakes). Let me tell you that I am writing this as a confession. I am always sure of everything: of the possible infliction of pain, of the 4-month honeymoon period and the boredom after that, of the sentences that are lies and sentences that are truths, of the I love you’s that lose their meaning after having been said for more than a hundred times but if there’s one thing, just one thing I can tell you, that is that I am so unsure of you. I do not know what it means when our fingers intertwine. I am only ever sure of the feeling but never of the necessity and yet, YET I do it anyway. I know how to give and give and give (I did it for years) but I never knew that it was just as rewarding for me to receive. You puzzle me and I absolutely hate everything about you puzzling me because 1. I think I’m brilliant and 2. I don’t want to acknowledge my flaws but you, what you are and are not I’m not entirely sure of but I’m going at it anyway. Why? Because maybe, just maybe, somebody other than myself can prove me wrong. Let me tell you that this love feels like sailing in uncharted waters on my own. For what purpose, I have no clue, but something tells me that she-who-does-not-know can glide through the tides and survive to not know until she finds her way back home. And I pray that you accept that you are now my home and that you let me treat you like a safe haven. You do not have to know how feeble it makes me feel to rest on your chest and not think about death for 52 seconds and the truth is, darling, I can bear to feel feeble if it means I can be right beside you and not actually want to die. Even if it takes a minute. Or five. I don’t care. Waste my time. Allow me to not be the meet-cute, for once, or the angel of death of the know-it-alls. I am a walking precaution but I’m starting to learn to forgive my feet. Because it stings to not know but it will sting even more to not try. I hope it scares you that I know what’s going to feel like a slit in the throat and what’s not because godfuckingdammit, it scares me that for the first time in my perfectly planned out, boring life, I am jumping down a rabbit hole and I am so unsure of myself but for you I’m making an exception, you unbelievably convincing madman. Only for you.

[sergeantselfish]

March 16, 2017

To the fourth. Under the city lights, we have found ourselves ceaselessly walking to the edge of nowhere. It has always been this way – you, me, the constellations selfless, waiting on what’s going to happen next because even both our Gods know that we never have a single clue on what’s going to happen next. Futile as can be, but comfortable. The stars can scowl for as long as they want and the sirens can sing until they lose their sense of meaning and even then, I will not stop trying to get lost in your eyes when I could just as easily lose myself in these city lights. We are the accidental love child of fate’s failure to get its shit together. There is no when or why, only “what now?” Always. No questions asked, just sentences put together in the blink of an eye. Tonight, two hundred cars are drifting like blind fireflies and all you want me to do is stop. Believe me, I cannot stop. I can stand still in an approaching tsunami and not budge but my flesh and my bones can never rest in your midst. Imagine the difficulty of having to stand still when the weight on your chest seems heavier than the entire scenario right in front of you. It is this moment – all sixty seconds of the stoplight signaling green – that is the poorly-written metaphor for our secret solitude. Fuck it, I’m calling it solitude and I’m not even alone. To put it in the most cliché way (and do not judge me, great poet), we come and go. Always unreasonably selfish – we are – but somehow, some way, not one of us is ever selfish enough to lie about a roadblock or come to a halt. Somehow, some way, our lonesome hands always find their way back home. And so the warmth of the western wind and the light of the new moon are all in vain today. You, love, have made me feel so warm that a ten-second embrace would have been unnecessary for such an unforgiving night like this. You, you indispensably charming thing, you. This entire universe is an unfortunate place to try to survive in but the burden of having to put up with it goes away when I am with you. You make the Earth seem less cruel. Tonight, we will part and I will be fine and you will be too and these cars will keep on running without us watching their every move. After all of this and all of the fuzz, we will not know where to go. Once again, like always. But the uncertainty in our little infinity is what makes it what it is. You see, I have lived through seven thousand stares and twenty-four different versions of stories and I could care less about what they want me to do. Tell me, if all this is a mistake, how come I’d trade so much for you?

[sergeantselfish]

Thank you, universe, for the known and the unknown. You make me feel so significant yet so, so small.

[sergeantselfish]

January 19, 2017

The universe has been treating me pretty well lately. I got to audition for a Philippine Ballet Theatre number with Colin and we got in. I get to talk to people of the same wavelength as I am almost every day. I talked to Jean today and I’ve never felt so alive. I got 24/25 in my social science quiz and I guess that’s pretty great. And yet, I never thanked the universe for all of this. How ungrateful. Anyway, here it is: Thank you, universe, for the known and the unknown. You make me feel so significant yet so, so small.

[sergeantselfish]

December 17, 2016

When strangers ask what my hobbies are, I always tell them I like “surfing the internet.” I do not tell them that I stay up till 3 am writing prose and drinking my favorite coffee. I do not tell them that I read Vladimir Nabokov or Kurt Vonnegut or Charles Bukowski. I do not tell them that I scroll through The Artidote until the next morning because it calms me down. I do not tell them that I jam with Mozart’s Divertimento before I fall asleep. Quite frankly, I do not tell them anything at all and that reassures me.

When people ask what I’m up to, I always tell them I’m watching Youtube videos. I do not tell them that as I reach home, I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling to think about life. I do not tell them that I listen to Chopin to meditate. I do not tell them that I write on a blog every day to have an account of everything I’ve been through. I do not tell them that I watch Fight Club twice a month just to refresh my memory of what I should be doing with my time on Earth. I do not tell them what I’m up to because nobody really wants to know.

I have been to several meet-and-greets my whole life. I know what it’s like to tell strangers about yourself for them to know you better. All meet-and-greets are familiar. The host always says, “Say something about yourself.” That one question horrifies me. Of course, they want to hear that I play volleyball or sing or dance and yes, I do those things. But they don’t define who I am. If I really wanted people to know me, I should tell them that I write prose and read poetry. I should tell them that I like Mozart more than Debussy. I should tell them that I like being left to my thoughts because that is the only time that my mind works its wonders. But I can’t. Because societal norms demand to be succumbed to, otherwise, you’re nobody.

[sergeantselfish]

December 4, 2016

My seemingly endless troubles are mainly about your damned self being consumed by the shallow definition of compassion and whatnot. I’m no existentialist, even worse, a pragmatist. Too dumb for that. Even then, I still hear the wolves howl from the other side of the cliff and I can only wish that they come to me for exhaustion has already gotten the best of my will. If so, I shall be open for appeals. I’d like to think that the world sees me as a transcendental idealist, you know, the type of crazies who believe that they do not perceive the world as it is but because it’s influenced by another force, or debatably, the lack thereof. If I may ask, do you see me as one? If you do, fuck you. If not, I love you. But it is true, I think. I’m telling you: Do not fall for the lies in my poetry. I do not write the words. There are voices in my head that do not want to get out. It is quite amazing, really, to have little people walk around in my brain all the time only to overpower it and take over my system. Masturbation must be what it’s called; to be so self-absorbed that the only words that do not come out from one ear to another are the words that come from my own imaginary pals. In that case, I am the embodiment of emotional masturbation. That is one thing I should’ve told you drunk before I blew my chance sober.

The noumenon of this situation is that I am a lover and you are a friend. You have always known this, but the force that influences you to think otherwise are the words that come out of my mouth; words that pull the soul out of the body, words that trick the mind and betray the heart. I told you so. I never told you that I wanted more than a cigarette, but I secretly hoped that the smoke I breathed would cradle my heart in between my ribs and take it out for you to see. If that happened then, you would’ve seen how it bled for every name you blurted out. You would’ve seen how it beat for every fire that you sparked. You would’ve seen how it stopped for every insult that felt like a punch in the throat in which I took as a compliment.

In all honesty (godfuckingdammit), Bukowski must be ogling at me right about now. Probably laughing his ass off, taking a hit, fucking God knows who, screw that. I just know he’s laughing. Can there ever be anything as fascinating as watching that dirty old man laugh? In case you did not get the memo, he was the pervert who emphasized the ever-famous concept that love is a dog from hell. Dogs do not belong in hell, surely. Limbo maybe, but hell? Nope. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that once again, universe, I am in love with a man that cannot be mine. His preoccupation is a sin to me and a pleasure to everybody else. How I faced that same problem for years, I do not know. I would much rather choose to cease to live than take all of this, but to no avail. How weird. I realized just now how I’ve always accepted things for what they are and not work for what they should be. That must be the inferiority complex in my subconscious. Disgusting. If I worked for what I wanted, I would’ve been dead by now. Ah. Death. My only salvation.

You know what. I don’t think I still want to finish this writing for you. I have been beating around the bush for the longest five hours of my life and I shall no longer. What I wanted to say was that I am tired. I’m leaving you, and I know that will not alter anything in your life but this is to let you know that it will in mine. Adios, mon amour, my days are over. I hope you stay alive.

[sergeantselfish]

December 2, 2016

The greatest literary pieces were probably made from when their writers felt their stomachs churning or their hands itching or even possibly, their hearts beating much faster than their everyday heartbeats.

The power to create a piece molded by a mind that was trained to think straight does not usually come easy. It takes heart and a whole lot of experience to write like you want to be Vladimir Nabokov after you type in that last period of the last sentence of the last piece you’ve written. And some may not have that. In fact, they may never get the chance to experience that at all. But you…

When you’re in the car and the thoughts float around in your head, mumbling something that sounds like “Write me down,” do not hesitate. You are distracted by your creativity. When your stomach churns after watching a movie that made you reflect on the consequences that come with living life, do not deny. You are hungry for words. When your hands itch while you’re trying to sleep, do not push through with it. One of your hands needs a pen and you are to give into its demand.

Everybody has the power to create, whether it be in the form of a painting or a poem or an invention. The only difference between human beings’ inborn skills as artists is what each of them pursue. And what’s unfortunate about the law of the universe for this particular concept is that some artists get to choose, others don’t. Of course, the most cliché thing to say is that you have the power to choose your own destiny. That may be 60% true (that figure is false) for boys and girls who were raised to believe that they can “anything they want to be” if they work hard enough. As for those who were not raised that way, it sure is tiring.

I remember you, Ricky Fitts.

[sergeantselfish]

September 29, 2016

I will try to type these words like I’m running my fingers from the tip of your head to the soles of your feet. I will try to comprehend a Beethoven piece by counting each note and pressing each key on the invisible grand piano. I will try to explain a being so complex that it has to be divided in parts before it is put together.

So, where do I start?

Your hair is nothing short of being ordinary. Dry and spiky, not even jet black. The only time that it is special is when you tilt your head towards my shoulder until the tip of each strand comes in contact with my lousy statement shirt. One by one. Like raindrops from a moving storm cloud, its final impact is anticipated to be rough but there still is beauty in seeing every droplet hit the ground one at a time. It is only special when you lean on my leg when you are tired of running around. These are the moments when I feel like a home, when I feel like a sanctuary. It is only special when you laugh and you find that it is okay for you to head-butt me in the gentlest way possible as a way of saying “Thank God that you listen to my bullshit.” Your hair is nothing short of being ordinary but it is in these little details, these little soft spots in your heart, that you are separated from the rest.

Your face is a blank slate only defined by the conviction in your eyes. For whatever reason, there is a glow in that underrated pair; almost like a pair of streetlights that guide me in getting through the night. Sometimes they disappear. More often than not, it is because your laugh is so genuine that you forget about the disappearance of your eyes. Other times, it is because you have to sleep.

Your face is red and your heart is blue and maybe you are purple, a mixture of the two. Your cheeks are cumulus clouds on a warm sunny day and cumulonimbus on days when she doesn’t talk to you. Your mouth is a vessel bound to deliver good news. When you start to speak, I lose my mind because your wisdom is nothing compared to mine. And yet you never fail to recognize my worth, not as an intellectual but an enlightened human. So I thank you for that. Everything else in that smug little face is a mystery to me, a secret to be uncovered. I can only speak for what I have seen and what you have allowed me. You have my heart and I have your hand and that is all there is that I have to know.

Your body is a temple that I never bothered to give a crap about. So let’s not dwell on that.

You must know this. For years, I never bothered to wander off in the darkness and try to find another light. I have always been content with a candle, so beautiful yet so, so small. But darling, forgive me, the candle has melted and the fire has burned out. I was left with nothing for a while until you came. The light of my life. It would be a sin to even quote Nabokov when you are more than that. If only words can express how my stomach aches every time you pass by to ask how my day went or how I secretly smile when I turn my back on you after you said something insulting and I knew it wasn’t true. If only you knew how confused I get when you say “I love you,” for we both say the same but mean two different things. If only your life was not too fucked up for me to interfere and say “Hello, I like you too.” But it is. And while that is unfortunate for the both of us, I’m still grateful to have such a fucked up human being like you. Very grateful, in fact.

It is both fulfilling and devastating to be reminded that I am not a special little flower. A special big flower, at least, but definitely not little. But your presence reminds me that right now, I am capable of giving while simultaneously knowing my worth. That’s what makes me special: recognizing you and recognizing myself; knowing that we do not define each other but fill in each other’s gaps anyway.

[sergeantselfish]

September 25, 2016

“No man is an island, and every man is part of a continent. But some men were meant to be worlds of their own, and the closest you can be to them is as a coworker at the outermost fringes of their circle of trust.” This was the Facebook status that stuck to me as I was scrolling down with nothing but emptiness within every corner of my bored, damned soul. There I was, scrolling down, knowing that I had embraced my own idea of my identity as a walking contradiction. How can emptiness consume every inch of space in the human body when it is nothing, a concept, an idea made up by a weak, dysfunctional brain incapable of counting blessings? How can it persist when it is just an idea? How can an idea devour a man?

[sergeantselfish]

September 18, 2016

How do I tell them?

How do I tell them that the educational system is killing me, devouring every piece of my being starting with my self-esteem?

How do I tell them that I am not okay, that I no longer entertain the idea of being okay?

How do I tell them that I wake up in the morning with nothing on my mind; no lessons learned from the night before, no people cherished, no memories remembered?

How do I tell them that I sleep at night trying to think about why I no longer think? Most days I’m even too tired to try and come up with something to think about and so I just sleep.

How do I tell them that I’m not strong anymore, that the identity I put up about being fiercely invincible no longer exists?

How do I tell them that I cannot work for them because I cannot even work for myself?

How do I tell them that I’m drowning in confusion, that I feel nothing and everything at the same damn time?

How do I tell them that life is getting me down and I’m tired of putting up with it?

How do I tell them that I don’t feel like I’m good enough to continue and live through life like it’s still about living it and not surviving?

How do I tell them that I no longer want to live?

[sergeantselfish]

May 30, 2016

It has recently come to my attention that I am slowly losing the capacity to feel compassion for people of the opposite sex. This is not a prose about coming out but a confession and revelation about the true reason behind the decisions that I have planned out for my life these past few months. I am neither gay nor a bisexual – which means, no, my lack of emotional expression is not due to a transition period that I’m currently going through. It’s more of a drastic change, really and evidently, that has been happening in my life for a long time now. So here you go:

What was love?

Love was found in eager eyes that met, coupled with genuine smiles that were like roses that bloomed as the sun rose. The sun was never anything else but the rush of finding meaning in such a vague way of expressing a complex feeling. It was found in hands that touched when the other’s soul started to die. Like the rekindling of an old flame or a bonfire lit after the rain, the hands that touched became words whispered in an ear that has been wanting to hear comfort in every letter that comes out of a criminal’s mouth. Love was magic. It happened when the rabbit appeared out of nowhere inside the big, funny hat. The audience knew what the trick was going to be but was never ready for what it was capable of doing. Love was heard in the laughter of two that echoed through the four walls of a room filled with thirty. It was when a world was created within a world; an illusion that was so believable, people started to get hooked. Love knew what was right and what was wrong and yet it never chose between the two. It was always partly right, partly wrong and that was enough to define it. Love was found in silences that lasted minutes, when one’s own voice started breaking until the tears came running down her cheeks. Unfortunately, love was found in the presence of sadness. It was not love if it was not sad. It was not love at all if voices did not break and tears did not fall. Love was measured in the miles that two hearts were apart. It never had to worry about the distance, only the absence of a heart that was supposed to be present in moments when the other had time to spare. Love happened when one avoided the other for reasons that did not make sense – space, time, and the etcetera of bullshit that are came up with to validate the acts of morons. There was no justification for that part where they had to wait on their phones for days. But then they always said it was love – so maybe it was. Love made two people: Julius Caesars that were stabbed and Brutuses that stabbed. Julius was never just Julius; he was the man that Brutus betrayed. Heck, love was always a foreshadowing to the end of an era. Like all stories, love ended the way it started. As two beings quit in trying to heal the other of the wounds of discontentment in each of their lives, the story ended. Because love was never a beginning. Love was never anything but an end.

And now, what is love?

Love is nothing but an excuse for a disadvantage. The best of men are held down due to the belief that they are not whole when they are not given attention. Self-love is one thing and eros is another, yes, but the world does not revolve around human beings. Scientifically, it revolves around the sun. Spiritually, it revolves around God. For men, however, it must revolve around people. And how stupid are men to believe in their own definition when they cannot even cure the deadliest of diseases that mercilessly kill their own kind? Like these plagues, love propagates bitter hearts and damned souls that rely on other damned souls for happiness. A boat sinks when it is overloaded and so does a heart. Love is an anchor that is supposed to keep people’s feet on the ground but it never does that. It ties the boat on one center and lets it travel within the perimeter, repeatedly, until the fake satisfaction of having traveled far is achieved by its captain. Love is dead weight. It eats up the weak and tries to penetrate the walls of the strong. More often than not, the strong give in and suddenly, the world is out of balance. Love limits the possibilities of life by putting people in cages and categories that do not ever fit. (I never finished this because I don’t know.)