I write because sometimes the insomnia doesn’t leave me for days and there is nothing else to fill the emptiness with, apart from words and darkness that surround me.

I write because there is nothing like the silence of 4 am combined with the sounds of a bustling Asian city through an open window.

I write because the blinking cursor on a white sheet of electronic paper makes me nervous. It’s like watching your life go by in seconds. I write because then it disappears a little. It’s a fake idea.

I write because I can forget about the world around me and create my own. But mostly I just retype what I witness. I write non-fictional fiction.

I write because I don’t know how to lie in my writing and I am tired of lies from my daily life.

I write because I don’t know what else to do.

my intentions to write anything substantial and self-explanatory keep ending in failed attempts. I’m looking at the reasons, trying to pin point everything that stands between my ideas and the process itself. because it is a little bit like a type of sacred passage that one has to go through in order to meet the ends. sometimes I have an idea but the writing abilities are asleep and I cannot put them to work, other times my fingers are aching to do
to the physical aspect of writing and my mind also seems to be ready, but none of the ideas are simply worth developing or even just thinking about.

I was actually surprised when last night, instead of going to sleep I opened my writing files and began writing. I didn’t think I had it in me. the last few days have been unproductive because I have spent the majority of the time inside our apartment, avoiding everything. and yesterday was particularly bad because before I even had a chance to turn around it was seven thirty in the evening. I was tired. exhausted. mostly just incredibly bored. but something still triggered me to write last night. maybe it was the photos we took, maybe it was the stories we shared. I am not sure. it was beautiful. but everything hurt. I cannot explain it.

everything hurts all the time. it’s not a physical pain. it is more of a discomfort, something that I am not able to define properly when I am sober. except when I cross the line they tend to come back to me; suddenly, like a boomerang and I can’t control any of the thoughts. last night I wrote it all down, even though there is still a fragment missing, something that I will never be able to put down, simply because I don’t remember it. but I kept writing and I kept writing; it took a few hours before I stopped. when I turned around I saw that the light has already started changing.

I write. I write that I am writing. mentally I see myself writing that I am writing and I can also see myself seeing that I am writing. I remember writing and also seeing myself writing. and I see myself remembering that I see myself writing and I remember seeing myself remembering that I was writing and I write seeing myself write that I remember having seen myself write that I saw myself writing that I was writing and that I was writing that I was writing that I was writing. I can also imagine myself writing that I had written that I was imagining myself writing that I see myself writing I am writing.

- salvador elizondo / the graphographer.

Pandiculation

– an instinctive stretching, as on awakening or while yawning

I wake up you are still asleep. I watch you breathe, I watch your eye movement beneath your eyelids. It seems as if you are riding a train in your sleep; watching the scenery out of the window. I feel as if my bladder is going to burst but I decide to stay in bed because I don’t want to wake you. You look so peaceful in your sleep. I wish I could crawl under your skin and stay there for the rest of your life. The bed is warm.

The house is silent. Light outside is getting brighter and brighter each time I look to the window. Shadows begin to move at least it seems so because everything else is still.

I slowly get up. I move as slowly as I can because our floor is old and it makes noises to each step. But even when the floor panels screech, you don’t wake up. You are deeply lost in your dreams, riding a train across the country, somewhere far away. For a moment, I wonder whether you still love me. Are we still as close as we have been in the last few months? I sit on the lavatory; it’s cold. You forgot to close the window last night.

But I leave it open and go to the kitchen. I put the water to boil, prepare two cups of coffee. I stand still. Listen to the water; there’s barely any cars passing outside the window. On the fridge there’s dozens of photos and newspaper clippings; I look at them. Each morning they greet me and remind me of everything I have ever left behind; of everything I have not experienced yet. The coffee is hot. I leave the apartment; quietly shut the door behind me; the elevator arrives faster than usually. I walk quickly to the street corner. It’s a cold September morning. Every day I pick up The New York Times from the same lady; always leave her extra change. The newspaper smells of fresh print.

By the time I return, you are already awake. Standing in the hallway, stretching out, yawning. Your hair stands out in all directions; you look cute. Innocent.

You smile when you see me. You bring me closer; kiss my neck. We share the newspaper and drink our coffee in silence.

Seven months later. I am in Afghanistan, still reading the same New York Times every day, except I am reading about myself. Gunfire the only sound I hear in the morning. Unspoken words and wishes. I’m gone and I am not sure when I am coming back. If ever.

You hate me now, but I loved our mornings more than anything else. I wanted you to know.