Waking up from a dreamless slumber, inasmuch as dreams can be unrecollected i saw the dials of the clock in the early morning. A dense thicket of mist permeated and befogged the windows. All was subfusc and the luminous dials glowed phosphorescent in the dawn. And me, well while i had dreamlessly slumbered i had consciously, though seemingly, unconscious of it, ravelled and unravelled my life into newer patterns or repeating old patterns in a reconfigured form.
I am going to write. What the content of my narrative exposition shall be is unknown to me though exposition is the form my mind has formed a blueprint of. I anticipate sitting down at my desk and writing away that which i cannot at this moment conceptualize of articulate. So i will articulate what is yet unknown to me. From whence will it emerge and what form am i going to give it?
Presumably what i will write will come from me. Is it, then something i already know, though the knowledge of it is unbeknownst to me? Or will i build up my narrative as i proceed with the process. The mechanism is nebulous and the certainty indeterminate. But a blueprint clearly exists in my mind, or so is my present cogitation before i embark on this activity i strive to explicate yet which defies explanation. The blueprint uncoils and unfurls as my mind, funnelled into concentration by focus squeezes out from the innards of my unconscious mind mnemonics of what i will consecutively explore.
Is there a pattern to this blueprint? Does it have a shape or a form that is preexisting? Am i actualizing the latent or pouring forth the fusillade as it is poured out in the antechamber of my mind. Am i spinning a yarn or is a yarn being spun out of me. This amorphousness is grating, this incertitude galling. Could i then, exert a measure of control through apprehending this process or will its putative unknowability testify to the strength of my narrative which, freed from a controlling consciousness meanders and forks out unexpectedly. Will my stream be all the truer if it is predicated on the immediacy of experience or will a technique, premeditated and preconceived, impose order on chaos.
For what it is worth this is what i have now written. In theorizing the constituents of this complex process i have neither achieved an answer nor resolved the ceaseless flurry of questions that are determinant on it. The sunlight is filtering in through the blinds, a wan but burgeoning light is specking the spots in the room where it alights with shafts of luminosity whose contraction and expansion rest on the motion of the curtains and the slant of light. But in this here, in this now, i am certain of one thing. Which is that in trying to get at the heart of this writing which i knew or didn't know about as i wrote into the unknown is now, at this very moment, a gauging of the very heart of that complexity itself.