It's nothing really. The magnitude seldom, if ever, seeps into the consciousness; the external turmoil is safely padded by layers of rust and fat. I used to love, and hope and fear, and feel the joy in living. Now, I feel nothing. There is a burn, steady and uneasy, but no more than that. I often wonder why it must – actually I don't. The need to conform to a style of writing vaguely nags me, but I endure it, like dozens of others every day. My fear of writing wrong impedes me from writing at all – this must be a writer’s worst nightmare come true; after perhaps the dread of understanding the implications of his own writing. I do believe everything is a piece of a large montage that will eventually add up; but then I have begun to realise it might be beyond human capacity to see it. I cling persistently to the thought that another world exists somewhere and that I wouldn't have to get my hands dirty after all. But it seems only a matter of time now. The more the r...
Memoirs from a quest to uncover the fabric of the universe