Intent on extracting career advice, I provoked dialogues with pedagogues. Responses were awkward, sometimes fully circumvented: their guilt discontinued the encouragement of novices.
The Other’s reported success disturbs my vegetation. I’m vacuous. If only I were obsessed, committed.
This fallout forms nothing artful, nothing substantial to fill a book like Cioran or Beckett, whom I’ve barely read: none of Cioran’s essays in A Short History Of Decay I understand or enjoy, though I plan on transcribing a few aphorisms from The Trouble With Being Born; as for Beckett, I’ve read two-thirds of his Trilogy (The Unnamable left to finish) and watched and read Endgame – I could aspire.
I am defeated by professional requirements: I can no longer convince through pretence. Actual work must be done – I can offer a collection of fragments; they share no relevance in their collection.
The ignorance I practice is lifesaving.