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I write with neither plan nor direction. I just know that writing helps me sustain these difficult mornings.


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My friend, the Poet, said rightly that writing was his weapon. It is a matter of profound indifference who or what is the enemy (one's self, an other, life). Precisely: writing is addressed to all things living and dead, past and present, with a form or nameless. It is climbing at the peak of the mountain and shouting with no care. I can only respect irreverence in a writer. To write too softly, too consciously would be too easy and safe. Like a weapon: you do not yield it with trembling hands but with a grip that holds onto life itself.


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It doesn't matter what I write as long as I write when I need to. Hence the sporadic and convulsive writing as of late. Focus is difficult: though I'm used to pushing a point gradually and patiently, like Sisyphus who is in no hurry with carrying his burden to the peak, I have found out that both the writer and the reader gets bored too easily. All we want to see is the rock when it falls. So why not let it fall midway? Or not carry it at all? Now we do not know what will come next. Like that which may show itself in the clearing.


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"They were steps for me, and I climbed them; to do it, I had to get over them--but they thought I wanted to rest on them" (Nietzsche).

When I returned from my vacation recently, I thought long and hard about leaving this clearingroom, that is, closing it or just leaving it. I though that it had served its purpose, that it was "time to move on," as if it were a resting place, where I just gathered myself, took in a deep breath, waiting for the time to go. I thought that what has been written here was too heavy already; true, it is off my back because it has been deposited here, but one doesn't get off that easily: we easily find new burdens. Where to now?

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Why I shall not leave this clearing. Because the point is to stay and stand the clearing before and even after the storm. When you stay in the clearing, the clearing opens up--and stays in you.


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Why do I keep on falling for the wrong person? Perhaps--a dangerous perhaps: I have always been the wrong person for myself.


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Why I keep on throwing my heart around. I'm just gathering material.


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I wish it were just the hangover or the usual midday sleepiness. I'd much rather prefer those than anxiety.


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Why do we long for that which we do not have? Because it's stupid to long for what you have when it's already short and there.


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Why do I write in these silent twilight moments between work and rest, between joy and anxiety? Because this is the most difficult emotion to capture and the worst time to speak. And it's challenging. I like difficult things.


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When you leave someone behind, do not look back for to do so is cheating.


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When someone leaves you behind, do not go calling out for him for to do so is pitiful.


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The dream of someone else is the dream of being someone else.


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Why is absence more present than presence? Because presence is a present and a gift and absence is the irrevocable taking back of the gift. Guilt from taking things for granted.


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Why I keep saying that nothing can hurt me anymore. Because it's true.



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