4.01.2011

Like every night I try to sleep, without the ease of so many others. My work has not been finished and I shall leave it for another day, if another day will bring it to existence. That unwritten manifesto is hours behind me, its potential suppressed once again as it ever should. Now is the time to forget, but it seems impossible to dismiss the impossible at this hour. Instead of drifting I am lying, not constructing but collecting, subconsciously resisting the subconscious. I sprawl nude in my bed, at the entrance to the show-not-tell, yet impassive. What keeps me here? I try to constrict my breathing by merging pillow and mouth, but I always find another airway paved. So often I hope my immobility will move me deeper into the static, but the choice to be made does not always reflect my desires. Tonight, I try.

In bed, then, staring, waiting, thinking: nothing. What’s that here? Silence. Silence, let it be and it will come.

But what? Something in me must fill it, don’t let it. I hear a door open and squeak, a memory of the daylight and then, words. No! Don’t let the words come. Let silence be the key, let it be the transition from my thoughtless day to the surrealism of nights without passing through the superrealism of evening. Do not let a word pass for it will grow into alertness if not awakeness and now I’m thinking about my thinking of words and a line here: “Hencetaking tides we haply return…” don’t finish it it should come tomorrow. A headline: “So-and-so is back in the news”. No, thinking. Do not let ability meet you in the dead of your supposed night, when there is no pen to translate. Focus. The cuts on my finger, the pain in picking my wounds. Focus. Overthought and wrought, now.

Rethinking. Maybe it should all be released and revealed and I should think nothing of its importance, just to let these words pass through each of their levels before they reach their late conclusion and I will be free of them. I will give them this example. What do they say, then, let me listen. Which is faster, the concrete or emotional? Let there be no images, let there be no sense of an outside, let there only be words with multiple definitions. Guide: do not describe my behaviour with objects of my behaviour. Do not associate my alertness with overstimulation or describe it with the stimulants whether it be a liquid of what kind it does not matter of what size is irrelevant of the process of consumption is useless fodder for those who spend too much analysis in the present. Should it be as self-aware and dramatic as a Fassbinder or just as so as the name-dropping? Let’s not speak too many curse words but overemphasise our speech. There shall be a plot, yes, but who shall know? Let’s put it into steps, with titles and goals so it can be followed in manned confusion. It is for every one the process but for no one else the content but let them believe it not. Yes, the masquerade of an opus for the mass, for we have all been in this foetal position. The universality of unbeknownst sleep-deprivation. It is to be forgotten but felt.

More in the past twenty minutes than the last twenty hours and yet prepared for the next. The distance great between the wake and the rest is as short or tall or proportioned as each night decides. Has this king been cleared, is it now to pass from the I to the he? Has it gone, will it go, will I go, will he go, he goes.

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