Not writing

I had a novel, and it slipped. One day I was thinking it, living it, the next day it was gone. My desires spread in all directions, loose legs. Some were transferred, unjustily, to somebody I didn’t really like, but who reminded me somehow of one of the characters I was writing about. His hair curled the same way, the neck bounced forwards when he walked. I saw him at a computer store, and I watched him, I watched the hair and the neck and the eyes, and I didn’t write it.

Or perhaps I did write. Can I ever stop the writing? Will it not need to stop itself? It felt as if I were writing, frenetically, but on an excercise bicycle, and that all the letters were just folding on top of the others. Like when I write emails or instructions, or copy something off a newspaper article. It was like in a dream, when you run but don’t get anywhere. I was being, doing, existing on some level, but unconscious to it all.

WRITING IS THE PASSING OF TIME.

These were the first words I wrote for several weeks.