I am waiting to write. The waiting game is more excruciating than the writing itself. You wait and wait until something within you, the impetus, begins to overflow begins to overtake whatever walls you’ve built whatever hesitancies belie your abilities. At that point you’re left with no choice only compulsion. I am waiting to be compelled in this way.
As long as I am waiting, I am hopeful.
Rather than kick street clothes and other paraphernalia to the ground, I’ve been letting it clutter at the foot of my bed in the hopes that one day my belongings will entomb me and I will live in perfect harmony with the best of what thrift stores have had to offer.
I’ve been too exhausted after work and the obligatory after-work drink(s) to begin fully the long project of my written piece. I plan to reference E. M. Cioran’s A Short History of Decay, Eugene Thacker’s After Life (not my favorite…) and probably some of the shorter fiction of Barthelme, Ligotti, Lovecraft, and, of course, The Anatomy of Melancholy. This is all likely to change within a day, of course. I’d like to continue the task of trying to write with photography in the style of my piece in Papersafe Magazine, in which case, I will likely turn to my only trusted work on photography-cum-literary theory, Camera Lucida.
Being an only child really lends itself to writing since you’re always already in conversation with yourself.
I wonder about the impact of imagined interactions both from dreams and waking life. Like people I know, my thoughts about them, come not only from what they’ve said and done but also from what I’ve imagined them to have said and done. A lot of what’s imagined is necessarily that which wouldn’t occur outside of imagination, and this probably has a lot to do with both how love and hate emerge.