Demise

Today, what shall I write today? A question that looks for no answer. To attain writing itself, to leave a mark – that’s enough. But what is it? Isn’t there writing already on the other side, in the other world? Why does it need to double itself here?

To write clearly, to construct an argument, to appeal to a reader – that is the writing on the other side of the mirror. And on this side? That I can even contrast writing in the world with what is here is sign of demise. There is no division – if the word ‘I’ comes apart here, if this is an ascetic writing, written to drive away each day the face of God, it is because it is always dispersed; and if it appears gathered there, in the book I am writing in the world, this is a lie and dissimulation.

But then how to make a mark here? How to draw writing into its advent when that requires, first of all, the dispersal of the writer? Writing marks itself; writing, the to-write, binds what is written to dispersal. Binds? Disperses it in turn, rather; relation without relation, leap without leaper.