inquiry

On one side, writing is as compelling a thing as I have in my life: it’s probably the only thing that I don’t know how not to do. But at the same time, its being so fundamental also means that my understanding is disproportional to its influence. I have little clear idea about why I love it the way I do, or really what my ultimate purpose is. For the latter, I sometimes think it’s better to think of writing as a means rather than an end; I write as a way to do other things. This doesn’t always work, though, since a lot of times I write simply to do it.

We breathe fine without understanding how or why.

Perhaps it's like that with writing?

Perhaps writing is a sort of “fingertips breathing”?

I like the idea of people responding to something I’ve done

You mean like this? ;–)

I keep going back and forth on whether or not I prefer interaction. I feel more creative when writing to The Void than to specific others, or even merely having specific others in mind when writing. It's as though the presence of the thought of specific other(s) wishes to constrain the height, depth, and breadth of the thought streams to suit them. And yet feeling utterly alone in this lends it a masturbatory feel that can easily morph “pointless” after all is said and cum.

Beautiful post, by the way.

It's such a prototypically autumn day, here, today: dying leaves being shaken upon branches as though vigorously waving goodbye. Which is rather accurate, I guess. Few are actually breaking free, but I'd not be surprised if that were starting to happen in a bigger way by the weekend.