I should write something. I should write something. I should write something. I keep hearing this thought in my head. Well, not exactly in my head for I don’t know from where my thoughts come from and where they hide themselves. I am tempted to say that I have no thoughts. I do not consider these sentences my thoughts. They just popped into existence out of nowhere like the universe itself. I am not a mother of these children. These thoughts are orphans, I have merely adopted them for a moment in time. Soon I will discard them. I will get rid of them. I will slaughter them. I will burn them. I will swallow them alive. I am the great inquisitor. I shall give no mercy to my thoughts. All will be drowned. All will be destroyed. I will build a graveyard to my thoughts.
What should I write? What are my thoughts today? I hear a voice whispering in my ear: “Write. Write and you will see. Thoughts will appear. Thoughts will come. Write without words. Write without stopping. Thoughts hate gaps between them. These silent spaces. Listen and write. Don’t be afraid. Write. Just write. And that will do. Soon you will see. You will notice a pattern. A blueprint of your brain.”
How weird is that? My voice? Who is talking to me? Whose voice I am following? Who has seduced me? She says again and again: “Avoid these gaps. Don’t pause. Don’t stop.” The voice inside me talks. I talk back to her. I hear how she rises and how she falls. I seem to have power over her in some way. If I would want to I could control her. In principle I could make her stop. I could make her still. But I don’t want to. Please continue, dear voice. My inner voice. Write an inspiring poem. It seems that I could make her write something I would like to read. She asks: “But how?” Just another thought not of my making. “Write, my boy. Just write.”, she says and disappears. The voice is gone but I write nonetheless. I have forgotten what I have written already. It is a circle. A cycle. A ring. An orbit. A rhythm. You see, words are creeping into my text. They won’t let me go. I am repeating myself. I have lost my thread of thought. Where is my voice? I cannot complete my sentences, that’s how limited I am. “Write. Just write.”, I am saying this to myself. I am the voice. I don’t need to control her. I can invoke her any moment I please. Appear now, o voice! My hands are ready. I will sacrifice my next sentence to the altar of your thoughts.
Two paragraphs. This is the third. All this has emerged from nothing. From your first thought. From the first “should” you gave birth to this sentence. This sentence should not have seen daylight. This sentence should never have been written. Which sentence? Not this sentence. The previous one, which denies it. You came into existence. From modest beginnings to a princely state. You were never made from dust. But it doesn’t make sense. I say this to myself. Why would I lie? Why would I lie to myself? Is this the sentence you wanted to write? Where is the next sentence? How will it look like? How many words will my next sentence contain? Will my next sentence be a question? Where will it lead me? To another sentence? Will my next sentence be my last? Don’t surrender to silence. Write. You almost had an idea. Silence. Oh, what an awful state that is. Please, go away. Where is my voice? Speak up. Write further words. Fill the gaps. Where is this sentence leading? Where will it bring me? To here. To my next sentence. Are you waiting for something magical to happen? Hoping to hit a golden ore? Trying to dig treasure out of the subconscious? I am afraid nothing is here. You are empty. These cramped lines. Where have I heard this before? I repeat myself over and over. All that I had inside I have already laid out for you. I have nothing more to say. A beginner. An amateur. I am afraid to stop. I feel that there is an idea just around the corner waiting for my next sentence. My next sentence will set everything straight. My next sentence will make my previous sentences look bad. My next sentence will reverse the meaning of my first sentence. I shouldn’t write. You see. I did it. I reversed the meaning of my first sentence. Now I will reverse the meaning of my next sentence. Watch! My next sentence is this sentence. But if this sentence was my next sentence then my next sentence was this sentence. However, my next sentence is this sentence not the previous sentence. But the previous sentence was my next sentence and this sentence is my current sentence. But if my next sentence was a couple of sentences before then what is this sentence? This sentence was my next sentence. No, this was my next sentence. How many next sentences do I have? Are all these my next sentences? My next sentence will be the sentence I will write after this sentence. My next sentence is my previous sentence. Thus my next sentence was the sentence I wrote before this sentence. But my next sentence was always this sentence. Not this sentence. But this sentence. My next sentence will mention that this was my next sentence. The previous sentence was my next sentence. But the next sentence is this sentence not the previous sentence. The previous sentence was my next sentence even though it claimed to be my next sentence. However, my next sentence was always this sentence, hence all the previous sentences are false. But if all the previous sentences are false then only this sentence is true. Thus I have not written my next sentence yet. If I have written my next sentence, it is not my next sentence. My next sentence has to be written yet. It is this sentence.
Silence is so close. All my metaphors went fishing. Nothing comes up. Same old dirt. Same old words. Finish now. I feel the temptation to give up. I am tired from all this writing. One bright idea is all I ask. Only one. A new word perhaps. A new thought association. A camouflage.
I will give up only when I receive a thought which will urge me to fight on and to continue. That’s how my thinking works. I have no balance. I am not in harmony. I am an extreme. Always an opposite. One page. Age. Rage. Vase. Blue. Sky. Mint. Tree. Leaf. Awe. Star. Far. Limestone. Ground. Pound. Sound. Milk. Silk. Fear. Bear. Atom. Matter. Mother. Gather. Rather. Her. Sir. Purse. Horse. Source. Force. Dose. Close. Pose. Rose. Sweet. Feet. Eat. Meat. Shit. Kit. Pit. Lit. It. There is no stream of consciousness. All this is calculated and censored thought. Mechanical and lifeless. Joyce was a decadent cheat.
Great writers play with words. Writers whose names I don’t know. You are struggling now. Give up. Give up. You are running out of words. No more sentences. Nothing comes up except for this last idea. About words. I like that. I will stop here. Vacuum abhors nature.