Untitleable

Here I am again, at writing’s departure point, writing’s beginning, and yet I see again that it has already begun, begun before its beginning, before its time, “A beginning anterior to all beginnings”. It has begun because it never begins, nor does it ever end – it always is. Always, because it is eternity, and eternity because it is only ever eternal repetition, always repetition. To return, time and time again, to that same point from which I never depart in the first place. Time and time again, yet it is beyond time itself. Time and time again return to that same starting line – that line which is never there in the first place, which always eludes me; the line I only become aware of once I’ve started running, once I’ve crossed it, as I catch myself running, never myself starting to run. And sometimes it morphs, always it morphs, it becomes the finishing line and I am drawn back toward it. But here in writing’s expanse, in writing’s space, death’s space, these distinctions carry no weight. This is the space of eternal differentiation and incessant merger. I run neither away from the starting point nor towards the finishing line. Here there is only one point, and all one can do is circle it, revolve endlessly, not drawing nearer because one cannot draw further away either. And at that, one does not revolve as an act, but rather is given to the inertia of an orbiting satellite, to stagnation and impossibility. The more I read Blanchot the more I feel that Blanchot is the only way to write, that Blanchot is writing par excellence. Yet I feel that now I write only in an inability to write; that ‘truth’ can only be written in error, only in failure, can only be spoken in silence as it is only heard in silence. And what is truth to us? By using that word I become a utilitarian traitor, a liar. One can only, must only, write error.
“I need weed”, I thought to myself. So much time without an idea. How does anyone ever manage to write without drugs? They don’t, they only think they do. And yet, what’s the use of using drugs? To write the same all over again? To never begin anew, but “to begin all over again”? And in the end… Discover that there is no end. Nevertheless, as I sat in my trusty rocking chair – that sturdy rocking chair which hasn’t let me down yet, which hasn’t broken like the last one – I got the urge. Why, why does it always come as I’m reading? –‘Write’. –‘But I’m reading. No, I’m sick of you. I won’t write.’ –‘Write’. I go on reading, but it’s hopeless now. The words fall away from the page; not a single one enters my mind. All I can think of now is this urge to write. The tingling sensation is getting worse and worse, and the leg begins to shake again. I read the paragraph again, I make another effort – nothing. –‘Bollocks!’ Impatience. And perhaps this is what Blanchot spoke of – not only the need for patience once one has started writing, patience not to try and term the interminable, but to patience not to begin writing, not to grab hold of what has already begun itself within you, without you. Patience to prolong and defer writing as if it were an orgasm. Patience not to reach an end. And even this patience is insufficient on its own – it is only significant when it contains within it impatience, when it holds an inevitable impatience at bay. Allow ideas to ferment. Who knows, we’ll see… Writing, only ambiguously. Anyone else is a liar.