Surprisingly, I Have a Complicated Relationship with Writing

Everything is spinning. I listen to the passing of time. Nothing happens. The rush of seconds and minutes drags me toward nothingness. And what does it mean when we say time passes? Is it possible to experience time passing? But I will leave the questions about the passage of time to metaphysics because words measure my time. “How long is forever?” inquires Alice. “Sometimes, just one second,” responds the White Rabbit. If I stop and do nothing, nothing happens. Suppose I am thinking about nothing. I listen to the passing of time. I have a complicated relationship with writing. Sometimes, I even distrust writing. It gives sententious pronouncements, makes moral judgments, describes purported historical facts, or tells exciting stories. Charting the courses taken by the great, my words follow frozen minds into the vast, dark terra incognita of the past, and unconsciously, I build upon a palimpsest of books written long ago and built upon an essence of meaning that could not be lost, no matter how much time had passed. It is time to allow the words’ continuing trajectories to trace paths in my novel to simulate the next thought. To continue accelerating toward the point of no return. To allow ways of every charged word, every strange and charming idea, to be captured and cast in crystalline patterns. Let these words be frozen forever in that moment of separation from me. <a href="https://medium.com/zenite/surprisingly-i-have-a-complicated-relationship-with-writing-d4887dc272f1">Read More</a>