How tired are you? Too tired to write? Never too tired for that, but too tired still to complete something by way of writing. How tired? Write, yes, but you will not complete what you write, and that is it, isn’t it: incompletion, the rendering incomplete of the complete, unfinishing the finished.
You’d like to bring it to term, wouldn’t you, to finish, to complete a work, to round it off, to achieve by writing something finished and complete? Curse of tiredness, curse of the non-event: nothing can be finished, not here. Nothing will be finished, and you will discover nothing new. Rewriting of writing, the wearing away of writing, every day the same, the non-completion of the same. Or is that what it is, the same: non-completion, non-event, the ruination that asks anew to botch success?
Accompany it, the day, as it comes to ruination. Be with it, the day, as it wears away the day. Today: the return of the nothing-will-happen. Today: the wearing away of the day, of every day.
Lars Iyer's Blog 