I have piles of papers upon which I have managed to
drag pens across, scribbling ideas that once seemed worth saving. They are like messages and momentos from the person I used to be. Once in a
while I go through some of them in hopes of inspiration. What I normally find
is something like this: nothing to help me write a story, but ideas I don’t
feel like discarding. I suppose if I put it on my blog, I can justify throwing
the paper away (except that there’s something written on the other side as
well). Let me know what you think:
“Extended concentration seems impossible, as the
ticking of the clock pervades my consciousness. One’s time is divided by
infinite instants, none of them giving enough space for a productive action. A
moment later a moment is gone forever, burnt like a limited supply of kindling
in the face of an endless winter. Time flows one way—perhaps the only constant
in this world—never, not once to turn back the clock even for a second. We can
retrace our steps in all things but this, can return to any home but the past.
Yet the past IS our home. In it is everything we have ever known. Every feeling
of love or belonging lies there. We are travelers without destination, merely
going forward, always departing the comfortable and the familiar. Eternal
refugees.”
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