|Is every text a kind of pretext? With each effort to write something down, my brain is flooded with waves of alternate phrasing, grammar and vocabulary. What seemed significant is washed away. Everything ends up abandoned. Nothing is a keeper.|
|I’ve never stayed the same, always forgetting feelings, motivations and evaluative criteria, as if they were creatures without time, always in the present, never knowing how they’ve changed since the last time I tried to write.|
|Maybe you’ll understand what I’m trying to get across, in your own way, after reading this. What does it matter if I’ll soon be considering other ways of putting it and better things to write about? This process is not a part of something else. The process is all there is.|
|I used to wonder if everything I wrote was pointless, or at best an evidence of failure, an absence of surety, coherence and understanding. It often felt as though I were tracing a compounding sequence of mistakes — that I was searching for someone already lost in the wilderness for years and presumed dead.|
|The archive I’d accumulated (and continue amassing) was a growing heap of ruins. The internet became an ever-expanding dumping pit. All the books in the world dissolved like wet toilet paper. There seemed to be nowhere left to go but the beginning, a place pre-existing abstractions and representation (if only, with bitter irony, in theory).|
|I’ve tried to imagine it while pretending not to pretend. It’s never lasted long. I’ve needed to consider us, Dear Readers. Every text could be the grounds of our rebuilding. Each encounter might change all there is, was, or will be. Do we exist without each other?
Texts will always be pretext. It has to be this way for the future to remain unwritten.