Days of no work, days of Cava in the evenings; days of five hundred kinds of boredom. Would that my attention could be direction; would that I could discover a narrowness of focus. Because in truth, I am lost in the fog; in truth, everything claims my attention; I am unsettled, a ghost disturbed from his tomb.
And on these kind of days - quite rare - I look back through the categories of the blog, following corridors into former lives. Who was I, then, when I was alive? Who was I? Drifting - blessed condition. To drift, like the wandering speech of the analysand or the automatic writer. I would like to lose myself. No: to discover myself lost, having been lost for some time. Why do I imagine that speech, that automatic writing, like the voiceover to a life that is lived silently?