Dear reader,
I am not writing this. To be precise, these are my words, but someone else is writing this because I cannot write it. I need his presence because I cannot be present. His hands move across the keys, his breath holds hands aloft. But these are my words you see, my voice. And I have no choice. I compel him because I too am compelled to speak, and, having no voice of my own i need another's voice. Another's body. These are my words. These are his movements.
I am not writing this. To be precise, these are my words, but someone else is writing this because I cannot write it. I need his presence because I cannot be present. His hands move across the keys, his breath holds hands aloft. But these are my words you see, my voice. And I have no choice. I compel him because I too am compelled to speak, and, having no voice of my own i need another's voice. Another's body. These are my words. These are his movements.
That it is now him is chance. Right place, right time. I don't know how it came about. I cannot say he knows either. Does he know he writes? This, or this? I cannot be sure. If you look at him, whom do you see? If you listen to him, whom do you hear? When he writes I it means me. I. It is his hands that move, unless they are still, but if they are not still, who moves them? I do. You read this now, his hands his breath his movements, striking the keys, my keys, my words. It is my voice now. This is my voice. I write with his body, and he speaks with my voice.
But, for instance, when he sighs I do not sigh. I wait until he has finished and I continue. He continues. It is not always this way, that I write with him, speak through him, use him. I cannot become him. I am always I. I am I. He is not. Though where his I is I cannot say. Nor should I like to try. Too dark, I suggest. Too deep. Where he is cannot be nice. He is absent, lets say. He has presence, pure, sure. But where he is does not concern me. My I, his body. For instance now I am making him cry while he writes this. I am making him sigh while he types. The drama relieves the tension between us. Yes, there is tension. But too dark, too deep to know. I won't investigate it. But I know how to ease it. To relieve it I simply have to make him cry or laugh or sigh or something. Bodies have needs too, you know. But simple gestures are enough to bury him again. But his body is never my body. I compel him to move, and he moves. But his body has its own demands.
In the beginning I could only say very little. I could only produce small eruptions, little squeaks that interrupted his flow. He would speak, with others, he would converse, and whilst speaking I would interrupt him. Stop him sometimes. Introduce myself to those present. He would introduce me, say I with his voice, and it would be me, my I, with his voice. Slowly, his I became mine. My I, his body.
But sometimes I wonder. I am also compelled to speak, to write. I too can remember, although I do not like to (too dark, too deep), another I, not mine, behind me, above me. I sense sometimes an I not my own at work within me, compelling me to speak, to write, as if I possessed the body needed to act. So compelled do I feel sometimes that I obey, and I take this body, not my own, and I use it. I bury him, he who now writes, who breathes, and where he is I cannot say and I do not care to. I make him write, and then I let him cry and he is gone.
I dream that he is dark and deep, possessing another, compelling them, like him, to speak. Their body, his I, his voice. His body, my I, my voice. Where his I is I cannot know. Who my I is I do not care to. He speaks for me, and I let him sigh, and i wonder where am I when he is here.
But, for instance, when he sighs I do not sigh. I wait until he has finished and I continue. He continues. It is not always this way, that I write with him, speak through him, use him. I cannot become him. I am always I. I am I. He is not. Though where his I is I cannot say. Nor should I like to try. Too dark, I suggest. Too deep. Where he is cannot be nice. He is absent, lets say. He has presence, pure, sure. But where he is does not concern me. My I, his body. For instance now I am making him cry while he writes this. I am making him sigh while he types. The drama relieves the tension between us. Yes, there is tension. But too dark, too deep to know. I won't investigate it. But I know how to ease it. To relieve it I simply have to make him cry or laugh or sigh or something. Bodies have needs too, you know. But simple gestures are enough to bury him again. But his body is never my body. I compel him to move, and he moves. But his body has its own demands.
In the beginning I could only say very little. I could only produce small eruptions, little squeaks that interrupted his flow. He would speak, with others, he would converse, and whilst speaking I would interrupt him. Stop him sometimes. Introduce myself to those present. He would introduce me, say I with his voice, and it would be me, my I, with his voice. Slowly, his I became mine. My I, his body.
But sometimes I wonder. I am also compelled to speak, to write. I too can remember, although I do not like to (too dark, too deep), another I, not mine, behind me, above me. I sense sometimes an I not my own at work within me, compelling me to speak, to write, as if I possessed the body needed to act. So compelled do I feel sometimes that I obey, and I take this body, not my own, and I use it. I bury him, he who now writes, who breathes, and where he is I cannot say and I do not care to. I make him write, and then I let him cry and he is gone.
I dream that he is dark and deep, possessing another, compelling them, like him, to speak. Their body, his I, his voice. His body, my I, my voice. Where his I is I cannot know. Who my I is I do not care to. He speaks for me, and I let him sigh, and i wonder where am I when he is here.
