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_ used to write more freely. now there’s an unnerving over-thinking and over-editing. thinking, what if this is too parallel, or not, or who cares, editing dwindling sentences, and configuring metaphors, scraps of their former selves, echoing something other, bleeding, clawing thoughts crying. a formless, thinking god thing of language. remembering why to language. thinking: language is the clay. the mind is the sculptor. don’t give language time to set.
maybe that’ll be the next project: a center-less process documenting the non-thing of writing. a book about not a book. hating the novel. wanting something other. a less painful search for meaning. a kinder, gentler time for oneself.