Indifference

Introspection? No, not even that, for nothing is seen here, and nothing belongs to the inside. By writing of them, events become lighter. Write of them, and they begin to rise into the air. But nothing is seen. Writing, just writing – the sound of words, the rhythm of prose, and the play of concepts. It barely interests me.

Write, half-attentive. Write, after writing several posts, and only then might you attain that writing-indifference, that writing-disinterestedness that lifts itself from the particularity of your life. I want to write nothing special. To write nothing in particular, to join my prose to the great streaming of prose.

My prose? But it is not mine, and that is what I want: to relinquish what is mine, my life and my memories; to lighten them, and let themselves drift into the air.