two nights ago, i was sitting at my desk at home, with a silly beanie pulled down to the top of my eyes, a glass of wine in hand, the heater on... and wishing that i could live my whole life in denial of everything. denial of time and responsibility, primarily, but also of fulfilment. i also wanted to deny even denial - nothing could be unaffected by it. i thought that the grating against myself might produce something - a web of shit and denial into which i could crawl, as i thought this might be a way of producing the ballooning, dark world explored by writers of prose. i'd sit under the desk and read notes from the underground...

now, after yesterday madly rattling off an essay, i'm at uni. i finished something - i talked to "my lover" on sunday night (as we will call the individual in question), i straightened myself out and pointed myself in a direction that was not "turning back in on myself", went to bed... slept like the dead, was called by my lecturer yesterday morning, who told me that she was leaving the country the next day SO I'D BETTER HAND IN THE FREAKING ESSAY...

and now, here i am the next day. i have a new set of books in my bag (existentialism, totalitarianism), and a sense that i can write.

i really was barking up the wrong tree, methinks, in previous attempts at essay-writing. one just has to go with what one contingently writes down: this is not an indicator towards the pure, idealistic thought-form lying behind the essay - it is the essay, it's the material words. words and thought: two sides of the one sheet of paper, right saussure? can't cut one without cutting the other. writing begets writing, and holding back does not engender perfection - only constipation.

meanwhile, here is quite a nice blog that i have hap'd upon: 'infinite thought'. i'm really quite taken with this blog thing at the moment.