I want to write, so why don’t I? I want to take a walk in the city, take some photographs, print them out in black and white and contemplate the beauty that results from the interaction of man and nature, so why don’t I?

I complicate, I renegade, I come up with strings of halfhearted arguments against action, designed to be impenetrable and confusing. The needle in the haystack nobody is even trying to find. Always the foreign element. A blotched grey spot in the right lower corner of a photograph, a sign that there was too much light in the darkroom.

They say the devil’s in the detail. Each strike, each blow, the detail that is given the task – in every benevolant mission lurks inherent evil. And once again I’ve become apologetic, an advocate of inaction against my own will – if such a thing exists. Willing – maybe, wanting – not so much.

And yet there is always something wanting, whether I give in to subdued action, taking orders from others, or exercise whatever strange approximation of lust or desire as transposed to ordinary tasks I can muster up. Something wanting indeed… That blotched spot. Beauty faded because of too much sunshine. A world – imperfect – due to external influences. And yet… a world the better for it still.

Inclined to introspection, excluding all possibility of inclusion and yet… The profuse sunlight forces it upon me – acceptance of what lies outside. Outside physically, outside mentally. Estranged by what millions of people find most familiar. And not a single familiar thought I’d like to bask in.

Written – I have sufficiently. It is the blank page I yearn for now.

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