There is the idea that everything, or most things, that are to be evaluated must always be put into the context of chronological time. To have a particular action be looked at in its aspect of duration seems to be habitual now. For example, I was going to start writing here and one of my initial thoughts was to say about how ‘finally’ I am going to write after such ‘a long time’ of not being able to do so (at the time of first drafting). We think of things this way, whether of writing, of art, or of simply going to someplace to eat at. What do we really mean when we say such things?
For one, there is this idea that duration, this one-dimensional attempt at measuring something as inconceivable as time, does not really matter. The more apt question then becomes: so what if a particularly significant action (that is, significant at the moment) was not put into practice at another time in which its significance was not of the matter, at least not explicitly? It would make sense if one believes that something needs to always be explicit in order for it to be true. However, much of life is not like gravity: fire is real even if there is no fire in the middle of the ocean. Furthermore, life is far more creative and mysterious than what is perceptible. Something can be true without it being presently sensible.
Someone in the knowledge field should know this well enough: ‘work’ does not mean only ‘writing’ (or coding, or organising, or whatever else); it also means reading, reflecting, staring into space, and sleeping, perhaps, to get the brain to process what it needs to process more effectively. On a basic level, a lot of cognitive processes are undetectable to the senses. Hence, one can say that they are working even when they do not seem to be doing so (i.e. they are not producing but are doing something else that contributes to the production process).
We can put this into a stronger application: if everything were interrelated, then to do one thing is also to work on another. Taking the writing example, if one writes as though it is one’s life, then every other way of living would be a development in writing. Hence, a writer who puts their pen down to listen to the whispers of the wind is, at the moment of listening, still in the process of writing.
This, then is my excuse for not writing for ‘a long time’. But why I would even need one is the more significant query. To answer for whom the excuse is for is obvious: myself. Why such is the case may be attributed to either the unapparent habituation of the practice or the experience of an illusion of distance from what one ought to not be distant from. The answer to ‘the more significant query’ shall remain unspoken, at least so far.
Because now I am sleepy. zzz.