welp, here I come again

Everyone will learn what they can. 

I read a similar phrase somewhere in Freud’s work, though I don’t really remember where. It must’ve been quoted from Faust by Goethe. I have never finished that book. I remember reading most of it somewhere in Strasbourg during my second year of university. I now have any recollection of what was so appealing about that book. I thought about buying its bilingual version after seeing it once again in Strasbourg while visiting a friend. Bilingual, as in the French and German one. 

I have been meaning to start learning German for many years now. I don’t know what’s holding me back. The perfectionism? Probably, but not wholly. It may have to do with an inferiority complex. Who am I to learn German (as if I don’t already know how to speak four different languages)? 

I always thought that I wasn’t an ambitious person. Now I come to understand that I was merely repressing it, locking it in a shed deep inside my head. I was afraid of not succeeding, of not measuring up to my ambitions. That’s maybe why I always felt a lot of anger towards the smallest of things. There’s an interesting link between depression and anger. 

Now I find myself saying things like “I want to be the best,” as if the existential dread would disappear by creating meaningless subjective comparisons with other people. I digress. 

Desire is not an object; I prefer to see it as a flux that gravitates towards them. The moment it contacts one of these so-called objects, it gets attracted to another one. An endless dance of connection and disconnection. The meaning of life lies in choosing an impossible task to complete. It’s about forcing the flux, the light of desire itself, to dance around infinite objects, trying to attain its last destination, without ever coming in contact with it. The one who desires never rots. The one who doesn't prematurely dissipate. 

I will learn what I can. That’s for certain. Though I can get enough. I never can. The pages never cease to feed my curiosity. I won’t be satisfied until I learn everything. Then death becomes much closer than satisfaction. 

Why the rush? Why this desire to read Lacan’s seminars as if I were eliminating them one by one?