I can´t say that I don´t want to write, it is the fuel of silence and also of darkness. There is a lot of laziness in me when I write, it isn´t preposterous, it´s not even a mood that I tend to, water in the mornings and then watch grow – the moods are irrelevant to my ability to write; the only feeling that keeps me from writing is the disdain toward my father and what makes me unfold in the direction of the pen is the constant reminder of an spiritual pain – the full knowledge that I am going to die; writing is running precisely the opposite direction. There´s this desperate quest to remain of the world, to remain alive, to remain young and beautiful; it is narcissistic and completely selfish. I navigate through the nights in thick rivulets of dreams that feature at times some fears that are superficial enough as to stand in place of my sins, there are also some spectacular dreams, some vague mementoes. At times I watch TV or just type pages with nonsense on and on in order to release myself from my duty but soon enough I begin to become emptied out of myself from within and filled in again with the crushing air of ambition without scholarship. The most painful part is when I sleep, I never attain the restful profound sleep that people often desire – my sleep hours are thick coatings of bodily pain and cycles of dismay and awareness, stiff muscle pain and discomfort around the joints of the hands and up into the shoulders; a fog of gruesome exhaustion takes over me for hours without being able to awake swiftly enough while participating as a listener in the fullness of the morning world. There hasn´t been a single day in months when I haven´t awoken to the screeching plights of this dense and dry headache and the total unwillingness to live through the day. Let´s hide in a cave and chase after the shadows of truth… The unwillingness of the everyday and yet so much of a grudge to hold against salvation! It seems as if that meager living is just a kind of bus station in between writing patters; yet I want all the writing to be perfect, I want to master all the topics, to master the languages, the words, the grammars but at this I´m most unsuccessful. I´ve never written anything I like. The reasoning behind it is that I am not inspired by common writing and by the everyday casual speeches of man – I want to stand as far aloof from society as a writer just like I´ve done it as a self. I can never imitate the feeling of my best inspirers and most likely not because I can´t think like them – I certainly do. It has to do with many other things: My depression, my alcoholism, my lack of sexual gratification, my perverted orphan Judaism, lack of precision and mastery in whichever language I would want to write in, lack of spiritual resources, perfectionism and fear. I am also afraid of my own results and of what I might be capable of, yet I keep on writing even when so mediocre a way because the fear of dying is so much more overwhelming than any other particular life situation. I dread the days but yet I am not anymore strong enough to bear with the weight of the nights… I haven´t seen the sun rising from the perspective of writing, I haven´t for so long and I miss it so badly. Right now I only remember it once in Tel Aviv, there was some Greek motif that day; actually I remember it now twice. The first time I was abandoned and the second, deceived. Yet no complaints so far! The second time I was meddling with the sand and the slumber, it was beautiful but I was very tired, sober, disappointed and sad. Now I think of Hope Knútsson writing her diaries since the age 18 everyday and now being perhaps over seventy. Yet I´ve written: But so many lost notebooks, either I lost them or I gave them away or I burnt them, they were forgotten in bars, they were left behind in flats when I couldn´t pay the rent anymore, sent them in envelopes to friends in foreign countries that never answer letters you send. I guess so many of them were meant to be lost because I am sure I haven´t told almost any story in my life from a honest viewpoint, it is as if I had never lived anything, as if I were writing from the perspective of a very childish imagination that still can´t grasp moral proposition being intertwined with the experience of life. An invented life that doesn´t rely on the amazing life story of the writer but rather on the abject pettiness of the kind of everyday details that un-amazing people want to hear. What kind of fetish is this petit bourgeois attitude to please the mobs at the expense of one´s own life and sanity? At the expense of truth and philosophy? I don´t have an answer. But I do derive an almost sexual gratification in hiding beneath the bourgeois codes of ethics in order to reveal the violence of that very attitude; however the consequences for my own person are direly detrimental for my own survival. Now I think about Marc, the most abstract friendship of all, so intangible, not anywhere, yet true. Everything is a distraction from the pain of sleeping and from the misery of writing. Writing must be bad because it is an antidote against forgetting, it is an antidote against letting things slip by, it is an undeniable record if not of what happened, or whatever you thought it meant. So many true experiences when isolated but so much not truth in the whole. Taking over the world by bits and as such, being left with bits and little else. I refuse to let go and to sink into the bodily decay of sleep. I refuse to have to tackle with some sort of physical weaknesses that point to the fact that life is starting to show signs of weakness, signs of a temporality that sinks unto itself to disappear one into the natural course of biological cycles without and from outside the works we leave behind us in the world, if it happens to be that we can leave anything behind us rather than the bleak and fickle taste of an unreflected existence. Why should one write for the public eye? Can´t we keep our diaries to ourselves? Does a minute of fame stand for leaving a work behind, for battling against biology?