i go around in circles all the time. my teacher said to stop writing in hypotheticals & immediately i knew she was right & that she had found the little spiral centre of me that i had been hiding not-too-solemnly. it is hard for me to detach myself from the hypothetical, most of my days i live in there. before i knew any of this (of writing or understanding or knowing there was a world at all around me) i knew that committing myself to one idea was an utter travesty. of course there are ideas now that i hold close to me. but usually i hang barely-suspended & wishing i was okay with being a pendulum.
most of the time, writing feels good. it feels like i’m doing something that i was meant to be doing, like a perfectly natural activity that is sense & exaltation personified. what a privilege it is to write, i think, all the time. even if never to share or be important or have outward vindication, this snapshotting of an exact frame of thinking is gorgeously overwhelming.
speaking for anyone else makes me antsy so i can only say it for me when i say that writing is a practice that terminates me. i don’t know if this sounds pleasant or not but that feeling of flow-state (entering & being hostage in) feels so indulgent it almost seems unlawful. maybe we’re heading there one day, maybe indulgence will be a sin soon. but if i’m being selfish anyway, today is not that day & i can go on writing until something stops me. that something will have to be an extraordinary force, stronger than the supermassive density of a brain fierce and running, the impossible sorcery that is a thought midway through creation.