So, here we are again. At the page with the rock behind us. Nothing special or serene about this particular occasion, just, another instance of writing. This whole formulation of words on a page or on a screen where there would otherwise be, nothing. Perhaps that’s what it is, Simmel's ideas of culture fulfilled. My subjective soul requiring more of itself seeks itself outside itself. And that can be true. But then, what if in this whole process we are, losing what we are aiming for. What if this process, which we had thought was for the purpose of living, for growing, was actually supplying us with falsity.

Ofcourse, that can’t be so. The whole idea that these things even come together or come apart creates the foundation of cultivation and attainment. How can I as a writer become better unless I write? It does not suffice that my thoughts are based on writing, this in itself is not writing. Although, we may recall the entire concept of billable hours. This is not the case. Let us suppose then that writing, must be exactly what it is, writing. It is the physical representation of a thought. It is a creation, in and of itself which lends its soul to a soul, that is, something intangible.

But then let us consider what it means to think for oneself, for ones own thoughts, how does one write for oneself and in doing so allow oneself to grow. If we consider the parameters of our endeavor, no, if we assume the existence of these parameters, then how much can we hope to accomplish. The confusion is silent, I suppose. But then it is not, it is inevitable, and in being so, it is loud. That is, it is undeniably apparent, and makes itself so. This confusion, if ultimately, not a confusion, is the primary effect of the process of writing. It is not a confusion in so far as it is misunderstood, it is a confusion because we cannot admit that we have, essentially mis-communicated ourselves to ourselves. We began with a thought, we allowed it to leave us, and on its journey from the metaphysical to the physical it changed.

The confusion occurs in our assumption that the travelling of one thought to a set of words carries with it our exact meaning, or even something that is somewhat like it, perhaps similar. But then this problem, if we can even assume it is one, is not a part of the process at all. It is the process. What we receive out of the process is what we expected, we expected that which was written to evolve a thought by making it more than what it was, and it did that, the thought was completed, in a way, it was made real and it was the thought that we required. The problem is our own problem, and that means, that the solution is our own.

My writing, once communicated to paper, is no longer my own thoughts, they are a representation of them, but they do not resemble my thoughts as they exist presently. So why then do I find, hate, when I go to feel my words. Why do I see them as they are written by some foreign, racial power that is not my own. This source, wherefrom my thoughts began still exists, it does, in me, but it is not the same. It has changed, but it still holds a sliver of that instance wherein I created it. This is why I hold such a heavy claim to it, even though it broke up with me a long, long time ago.