“If you sit for many hours and look down at a book and then up at a city and then down at the book again, eventually the two blend into one, and there is no longer any difference between them.”

Susan Harlan at LitHub.


I’ve been putting so much pressure on myself to write, to feel, to read. So much pressure that I haven’t done anything. I’m waiting for a moment to recover myself. There’s no future moment better than the current one. All moments are equally available. “Yet when the mind orders the mind, they are one and the same–and the command is not carried out.” (Augustine.) There is a “sickness of the soul,” the soul “weighed down by compulsions,” impeding the mind’s ability to move.

I don’t have a plan or an idea of how I’m going to live… I’m just living, from day-to-day, ruled by the wind breaking east-to-west, or west-to-east. I’m following the course of my little delivery van as it follows the desires of others, desires which are impossible to predict or perhaps even chart. The most that can be said of them is that they can be regulated, isolated in little windows of time–blocks of two hours to move from city to city.

But I’m not entirely dependent on others’ desire. I’m feeling desire myself. I’m following it. But I have not tamed the compulsions that have me turning in every direction, have not determined myself to go where I want to go. Until then I will continue to feel formless and aimless as a cloud.

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