As a student of Philosophy and Politics, one naturally desires to eventually be one of the thinkers they so often read. That-be-it, become or transcend the space of the reader and gently sit in the chair of the writer. Oh, what satisfaction must that produce! But, what even gives the right-of-use to any thinker of the writer’s chair? It simply is a false, or a posteriori recognition of the right; one does not write knowing to be in the position of the writer’s chair, one simply writes. 

Furthermore, one should write —especially if one is reading. If one waits for the moment to become the writer, for the moment in which one ‘s ideas assimilate in quality to that of our inspirers, then, it is clear that this moment will never arrive; at least not for those intelligent enough to be critical of their work. This moment will never arrive for the simple reason that we never stop encountering brilliant texts, or brilliant ideas: in the form of a new idea to us, a new interpretation of an idea, a counterpoint, an idea applied to a different context, etc. 

So it seems that it is not truly possible to become the writer, and stop being the reader. There are always new things to read. Reading shall not stop you from writing. Rather, reading should give you an impulse to write. There should be no reading with no writing. There is an inherent purpose in writings: for the writings to be read. So too, it seems, given the arousal by texts, that writing (then transformed to reading) causes writing itself; autopoiesis of the episteme in practice.

In here lies a further concern with writing and reading. It is entirely accepted that writing entails reading, for then, what is its purpose? But, what is pressing is not the why question, but the “by whom” question. If I am writing, for whom should I write? And herein lies what appears to be one of the most common errors which people make. Writing should be entirely for you. 

As I see it, writing seems to be the only way possible  in which one can speak to themself. Reading Derrida I encountered several times the question of what does it mean to speak, and I shall —for this moment— completely forget about his incredible devotion to inquiring on the intricacies of speaking. However, what is now still present is that a conversation has the necessity (in order to be constituted a conversation) of the otherness. When one speaks, there is an Other which responds. Now, how can it be that when I write —which has been established has the necessity of being read— I encounter an Other, if I do it for myself? The answer is possibly quite obvious. When I write for myself, I am questioning those lingering thoughts which have not yet been materialized, the syntax in which I present them (and as such, their logical structure [logical as the field of philosophy]), and thus whenever I either accept or reject such questioning, I am encountering an Other, one so similar that it is even possible to mistake him for myself, but nonetheless an Other. 

Hence, and as I mentioned already, as a student of these fields, I am constantly in an urge to write. The purposes, I hope, have been made clear. I want to encounter the Other in me. I want to dissect that which only appears as flashes from time to time, and hopefully, within such examination, I will find how I think for the time being. Finding how I think (for the time being), I hope, serves to me in the future in a twofold sense: (1) I hope to look back at these beliefs and thoughts and assess how these have evolved through time; and (2) I hope that by making my thoughts clear within the following sections, I am thus able to challenge them in a philosophically systematized manner, so as to further knowledge.