Amo, Ergo Sum

Cogito, ergo sum.
I think, therefore I am.

Isn't it beautiful? With such a simple thought, we can prove our existence. Not the existence of us—my skin, my hair, my eyes, or even the beat of my heart—but of I, the thinking self. Because there has to be someone who conceives that statement, it means that a subject must exist. And even if said statement were a lie, it would still imply the existence of a subject that is conceiving said lie. In just a few words, we find the proof of a universal truth. We don't even need those words. Conceive anything: a breath, a light, a color, a star. In every thought, in every idea, the subject works tirelessly to think and affirm its own existence.

There is, however, another truth we can ascertain from that very same process. After all, a proposition such as "I is" implies its double negation. "It is not true that I is-not." The state of Being is a contradiction of Not-Being, and vice versa. Through this reflection, I is made aware of something other than it. Something different, something that I is not.

And I tries to understand it.

I attempts to stop thinking for a while. "I think, therefore I am." So then, "I don't think, therefore I am not?" But that does not work. The act of not thinking is also something that the conceiving self is doing.
I attempts to think of something that is the complete opposite of itself. But what is I? What is it? The only thing it knows about itself is that it is. The complete opposite of itself is not being, then. So I is not what it is not? That tautology teaches I nothing.

And then, I realizes what the other truth it ascertained truly meant: that I is alone in a world of its own creation. That self-reflection, those three words, that simple idea. They had been the catalyst for something that I couldn't even reverse. It tried, oh, I tried. Alone in the world, it tried to kill itself in hopes that it would bring it closer to its opposite. And that is when I first understood longing.

Cogito, ergo sum?
No. It would be more accurate to say, "Amo ergo sum."
I love, therefore I am.

From all the ideas I conceived, a world was born. The light, the skies, the animals, the men. And yet, I felt just as alone as it had been when it thought its first thought. For all I created, there was nothing other than it in the world. In every thing it conceived, the only meaning I could extract is that it existed. A lie, well-expressed, well-crafted, colorful, beautiful, vivid, vibrant, but a lie nonetheless, one that I knew was a lie, and a lie that I could tell to no one but itself.

It is no wonder that, on the seventh day, I fell asleep.