The day disappears into a long meeting; there is little point, now, in beginning anything. What to do with these hours? I would like to write something, true, to pretend to myself that something happened – that writing would have allowed me to think. But when you are too tired or washed out to write, when you are too tired to begin to write anything except ‘there is little point in beginning anything’, nothing is possible and it is as though this nothing were a blank, immovable wall, the blank page you would like to incise with words of truth and fire.
But you know that marks you leave on the page will be absorbed by the page you will see tomorrow. For it is the same page as today’s and yesterday’s: the same page which calls for writing and refuses to disappear beneath it. You can write towards it, tomorrow’s page, only when you cannot write, when beginning is impossible and the writing you write is no longer written by your own hand. Writing of the origin, writing writing writing, repeating only the event to which it belongs and which it cannot bring to completion.
Lars Iyer's Blog 