A Great Bridge

Administration is our good fortune, W. says. Our endless bureaucracy. Because we can still believe that if we had time, we could produce a masterwork.

Imagine it! Time, just time – and silence. And a room – a bed, a desk, a window. The world reduced to a room. You'd rise from your bed and go straight to your desk. Straight there – it's no distance.

Straight to work! Reading with care and patience. Beginning to write – a few notes. Exercises at the barre. And then it would begin, the real work. Then it would begin again, taking off from yesterday – one page, another – who's counting?

How the day would be crossed! A great bridge, spanning from morning and evening! And you'd arrive on the otherwise tired but content: a day had passed. Another day of work.

And in the evening, after dinner? You might read a novel. You might look out of the window, muse, as you would be entitled to muse. And the next day, rising, it would all begin again, workday melting into workday, the great project arching through the months and the seasons and the years …

But luckily we have our administration. Luckily we have our alibis. Imagine it, if we were to be given time. Imagine it – a room, the world reduced to a room: a bed, a desk, a window. And some books, I add. And some books, says W.

We'd deface the books and set fire to the desk. We'd jump on the bed like idiot children and smash our fists through the window. Then we'd hang ourselves, or masturbate, one of the two …

Oh, how has it come to this? How has it come to so little?