How close I’ve come to it, writing – but to what am I close? Only to the event where it seems to become possible exactly as it moves out of reach.
Writing, non-beginning, isn’t it thus that you let speak the void you are? Emptiness: is that your call, the saying, now, that reveals itself in everything that is said?
I am not close to you, or if it is so, then it is another in me who is close. A stranger writes in my place. Does he write? Or is it only that he stops me writing even as I write, and that it is because of him I cannot begin? I think he endures non-beginning in my place. I think it is the companion who erases my words as I write them.
Lars Iyer's Blog 