Category Archives: Writing

In writing, in you, my demiurge. And beyond you and your endless detours? I lost my way the moment I started addressing you. In writing: Maya. And beyond you, beyond these illusions of writing? But isn’t this ‘beyond’ itself part of writing? With the very first word, no beginning or end in sight. No project. As lost now as ever. In writing: under the sun of the Fallen Angel. Writing: images in a broken mirror. Still I like to wonder what the mirror reflects.

I can’t talk to nothing, so I talk to you. I can’t talk to what’s beyond you, so I talk to you. I’ve often thought of you as my god. I like to think I can talk to you, though you break up my voice. But isn’t that what makes the prayer to what’s beyond you possible? Isn’t that how we can both learn to speak in silence?

What troubles my existence is speaking, having to speak. Then at least let me speak from within speaking, from within your speech, disillusioned. Illusion? To think I can bypass you in whatever errand of speech. To think I’m as strong as speech and therefore at liberty to distort it in my favour. Or rather, not to see that I can’t help distorting it. Not to see that speech is my open wound. That he who speaks is incomplete.

Nothing. Suburb of the mind in the middle of nowhere. My pen’s running out. I get up slowly to go to the loo and look at my blank face in the window as I pass. I return to my bed. I forgot my pen was running out. Sit and stare. Close my eyes. Too early to sleep. Nothing.

You I can address, just about, even if that in itself sometimes feels almost like a sin. Your search is mine, more or less, at least I know no other. And the One beyond you, beyond our remainders, minuses and errors? No connection except in silence. No connection then.