This was 14 years, 6 months, 11 days ago
sometimes I look back and think 'wow, could I have really written that?' other times I do realize it proves nothing than the most solipsistic of points, internal coherence, I shit and I eat and nothing too much has really changed. and other other times I just sit back and look at the characters drift past my eyes and I still think in wonder, oh yes, oh yes:
If anything happens it's in the liminal space, the small space between yes and no, the interims. Motivation and introspection and action takes place right here, in this epsilon, not as large and monumental events but the space between each keystroke and the points between each letter. It's all here. There are no grand sweeping gestures to make except for the little jabs at plastic tabs called typing.
Any thought that takes the form of "I wish I could dot dot dot (...)" is really this, shrouded in language that hints otherwise. The question is of granularity, resolution. The minimum unit of a resolution of action is a finger twitch, a minuscule quantum of resolve. Climbing up constructed from a series of muscle movements.