Writing is sometimes like entering a quiet room in the soft afternoon light: I sit down at the table, and on the other side of the table settles The Text That I Write. We talk together, and the conversation gives birth to ideas that are novel to both of us. There we sit, for hours on end, and the dusk begins to fall, and the conversation just goes on and on. And gradually the evening changes into night, and the silence around us grows so deep and intense that I no longer discern my own thoughts and ideas from The Text That I Write. Along with the falling night, I fade away, and I transform and get mingled into what I write. And at that very moment I understand: this is exactly what I have been aiming at; that I could dissolve into what I write, and that through my vanishing I could create Another, a completely new and separate being, who in the growing light of the next morning would be looking at the world with fresh new eyes.
Even this writing here was born of a desire to go into a quiet room.
I started to write this text already several days ago. I started without any particular goal in mind, my only aim being to transfer into writing whatever happened to be moving inside my head; without choosing any particular direction; having curiosity as my mere guiding principle; keeping in my mind the question: what comes out of this freely undulating moment?
So I wrote for a while, and I was very pleased spending time in the quiet room with my companion, the Text That I Wrote. I felt that though I did not perhaps succeed in creating a whole being into existence, I was nevertheless creating something new; that at least I was very close to recreating myself.
But as it often happens, the real life, the external physical world forced me violently out of my quiet room, and the fruitful conversation with the Text That I Had Been Writing was abruptly ended.
When I finally returned to my room again, I realized that I had somehow closed the computer without saving my text.
Suddenly I was all alone.
I just had started to create something solid, concrete, something permanent, I thought. Or at least I had managed to get hold of the hem of the passing reality, of something absolutely new and important – and then it was gone!
I felt sad. I had lost a friend with whom I had been passing time. I was back in my own indefinite company, in my invariably changing moods, exposed to all kinds of external impulses; no more consistent with what I had called “myself”.
But today I came again into my quiet room. This time I have remembered to save diligently The Text That I Write.
The afternoon is cloudy, I have been following the course of my wandering thoughts, and I already wait for tomorrow; the moment when this particular form of existence carries me to some place I know nothing about today – perhaps to a story that is just about to begin.