On Writing

Writing +
Writing isn’t physically digestible, something taken into the body orally. Instead, writing teases, inducing the imaginable. You can just about suck it, the sugars in saliva, but never a mouth full, a gulp of cream.
Your mistake, a tiny statement, provides the proper oscillation to commit an answer, rivalling against an ephemeral defeat. You must then begin to translate its silences, wary of minute results.
Writing –
I’ve ruled out everything. There isn’t a single thing I enjoy. Regardless, I write.
In my ignorance, there was no limitation on language. Now I strain to form a sentence. My exactitude is unhealthy. I sit all day in front of the page, depressed at the fact that I cannot translate my worthlessness into a form: I have no art, and therefore cannot be redeemed. Disappearance is the only option, and night shifts at the land’s end will fund it.


Piers Inkpen