A small wish.

I was thinking today, while cleaning, how much there is in me that needs to be written. Should I not have any commitments at all, I could write for weeks, months, and there would still be more. But because of the world outside it all has to stay inside, until the moments when I'm not tired, not hassled, not burnt out.

Perhaps it's wishful thinking, but sometimes I wonder if all humble human creation does live somewhere else, another place to which we will one day be privvy. I want to make things live.

And if human artistic creation is not giving life, then perhaps it goes toward the meaning of everything, the tying up of every loose end so that we will have contributed to the lasting order of things, to the obliteration of chaos.

And sometimes, I just want to write.