Fear: What if I am nothing at all – what if there is nothing to me, no ipse, no self? Fear: I am at the threshold of a story. I am outside the story in which everyone is caught but me. Outside: I cannot speak of myself in my own language. Or: I have no language; what I speak is not mine.
Image of myself, image of nothing, I am drinking a bottle of beer on my own in the flat. Open curtains, the yard. A book on my lap. Fear: to be other than myself – other than anyone. I am supposed to be writing. I’m supposed to be planning my summer. Writing, planning – and instead?
The day passed – it was too long, too vast – and this is the evening. But there’s still light, too much of it. If I could close the curtains – then what? If I could close the light down – what then? But that is what I’m trying here. To double the day – to speak it, to catch out its secret, its blandness. Day, I will arrest you. Day, I will preserve what you present to me
But I know as I write that I am only the one who relates to the day. I belong to it, the day; I am the day become self-conscious, the day awake. And now I will watch over you, day, as you fall into evening. Watch over you, over myself – the day is too long – until I return to the one who can plan, who can write.
Lars Iyer's Blog 