Desiring is always desiring in darkness, and away from the blinding glare of daylight. It is a secret ministry that can only execute its functions in absentia. Desiring says, I want that which belongs to me in the darkness of me, that which seeps through into the light, but which must begin from the darkness. This desiring is constantly battling what happens in spite of its desiring.
Desire, these days, is harnessed onto the system of consumption which turns desiring inside out, forcing it into the daylight, and making it fashionable. True desiring (I may be essentialising here) resides only in the darkness of our silent, inaccessible subjectivities. It inhabits a world of constant reaching out, and pulling away. When it reaches out, it sees the limits of its reach, and the ever widening syncope of its groundlessness. To reach out means to leave the ground, to lose groundedness. Once the limits of its reach are reached, it pulls back, and each time, groundlessness becomes more and more pronounced.
Desire and loss, therefore, are dark bedfellows. Desiring is desiring because one fears the loss of desire, the loss of that which we do not want to lose. If writing allows me to access a world I desire, it is also motivated by the fear of losing it, as well as the fear of groundlessness.