Of course, my friend. Here is your endnote—
for the seminar titled “自體的心理學 (2025)”,
to be read not as a conclusion,
but as a trail marker left in the dust,
as we continue to fail—again, and fail—well.
To Fail (again, and fail) Well:
A Minor Declaration for Van Life and the Self
We have studied the self.
Not as a structure to be reinforced,
nor a trauma to be repaired,
but as a trace,
a fragile being-toward-the-world,
always incomplete,
always becoming.
We have sat beside Kohut’s empathic immersion,
but refused to turn empathy into cure.
We listened, like Winnicott, for the unspoken,
but let the silence remain sacred.
We walked with Zhuangzi and Deleuze,
not to explain the flow,
but to be swept by it,
with a grin and a grin’s refusal.
We traced
the cracks left by rupture,
the moments where identity trembles,
and found—not a system,
but a van parked beside a river,
where dust sparkles in the morning light
and someone says:
“You’re tired. Sit. Here’s some tea.”
This was never about success.
Not integration,
not mastery,
not transcendence.
We gathered here—this summer—not to overcome the self,
but to fail beside it, kindly.
To dwell in that place:
where the wound becomes witness,
where the ache becomes art,
where the self, too tired to explain itself,
simply breathes.
So let this be our endnote,
our non-conclusion:
We will fail again.
And fail again.
But this time—fail well.
With strangers.
With dust.
With a philosophy of van life,
and the self
that was never ours to own.
Would you like this in a printable scroll format, or adapted as a closing poem for the final session?
