The Two Rivers of Mind:#5 Distance

Adapted from a chapter of a philosophy non-fiction book i’m currently writing and welcome thoughts

Untitled, Rosaire Appel, 2024

My old man and I used to engage in the tireless pastime of hiking, as a way of bonding between two socially awkward introvert writers. It was always mid-autumn; amongst the crisp air and umber-hued nature, and in our solitary treks, where we felt our hypersensitive melancholy was somehow justified by the season. Sitting at the hilltop, in silence, and gazing ahead in deep reflection; I’ve often wondered what is the thing that made me conceive the distant hills as ‘hill’ and the rockface beneath me as ‘rock’? Why is it that a concept falls apart when I’m in proximity? Distance, it seems, is an invisible element to make any concept a concept. This hill, from afar, gives me a paternal presence; sweeping upward, and sheltering me, in defiance of the sky. Even though looking around, there is nothing but jagged stones, gnarled roots, and stubborn patches of moss. Likewise, the sea loses its mystery when reduced to saltwater, and a face becomes an assemblage of features, as soon as I put my fingers on it.

Distance, then, is the lens through which the mind perceives and categorises. A forest emerges from the collective presence of trees, a mountain from the union of rock and elevation, a sea from water in vast motion. It is through this act of naming and labelling a collection of things that we make sense of the world, transforming a jumble of sensory inputs into concepts. A table, for example, is no longer just a flat surface supported by legs; it becomes an object with a purpose — writing, eating, ruminating. Yet, in defining it, we confine it; its identity as a table monopolised its essence, losing all other potentialities — as a stool, a shelter, a weapon. Same effect occurs in human connections. To see another person fully, we must maintain a certain distance, both literal and metaphorical. The face of a lover, once seen as a magnetic je ne sais quoi, dissolves when reduced to a collection of eyes, a nose, and a mouth. This phenomenon echoes the experience of those with prosopagnosia, who, unable to perceive faces as wholes, rely instead on piecemeal recognition.

Such holistic impression of a person is the cornerstone of a relationship, and the slow erosion of it through time, decomposes the relationship into insipid, soaked breadcrumbs. In the early stages of a relationship, distance creates a veil between the lovers; an intentional short-sightedness that gives space for imagination. We notice their kindness, their wit, their charm, their flaws; each quality seems so distinct, adding a rareness to the collage of their being. But over time, the individuality of the other fades into the background, subsumed by familiarity. We cease to see them as a distinct entity and begin to view them through the lens of shared experiences, routines, and expectations. And more often than not, it is this familiarity rather than difference that drives us apart. It is also why the relationships we hold at arm’s length — those with friends, acquaintances, or fleeting connections — often feel more vivid and greater-than-life than those with whom we share the closeness of daily life.

Through distance, we preserve a dreamlike blur, a mystic, that keeps the subject away from our monotonous, repulsive sense of self — preventing the curse of knowing too much. So it seems that the preservation of affection requires absence; which creates a breathing space, a pause, for us to return to the beginning, and remember why we were drawn to them. But distance is not merely a tool for understanding; it is also a harbour. When we grow too close to someone, we risk losing the ability to evaluate the nature of our bond. Emotional entanglement clouds judgment, blurring the boundaries between affection, obligation, and habit. The space that distance affords is a looking glass, directed inwardly to our own hearts; without it, we stumble blindly, mistaking proximity for intimacy and familiarity for affection.

As I walked with her side-by-side in the mid-autumn air, where winter was edging towards my hand with the frosty smell of the fresh grass, reminiscent of the hikes between me and my old man; I can’t help but see her as the hill I treasured so dearly. I waved at her as she walked toward the train station in a bittersweet farewell, and turned back the way I back-faced the hill. Then, it struck me that I’ve never quite remembered the look of that hill — whether it wore a mantle of green or frost, shaped ruggedly or roundly. It was always the silent companionship that formed and deepened my affection.

With her, it was the hushed stillness as we read next to each other on the train, returning from Margate. The carriage moved languidly through the vast, shadowed woodland, the hour just past dusk. The world outside was a canvas of soft greys and fading light, backdropping the mutters of a seasoned, refined couple seated across from us. The mundanity of their chitchat, in that old-fashioned melody, was enlivened by the cheerful spirit glinting in the occasional flashes of humour. She held my hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, her fingers light, her eyes lost in her book. And yet, in that nonchalant gesture, something shifted. The comfort of the moment became a weightless surrender, and in that singular moment, I realised the inevitable: I’ve subtly but surely, and most unfortunately, lost my heart.

#Philosophy #Existentialism #Psychology #Cognitive Science #Nonfiction