My space is taken up with: noise, shapes, ideas, voices, objects, information, air. So I edit. Then restore. Then add. Then delete. I upgrade. I degrade. I leave alone for a while. I wait. I go back…there’s still too much. No matter what I remove. I can’t release enough space. I can’t reveal anything. I try to change perspective. I move around the space and observe it from different angles. I change my mind and perception. I listen to the space. Nothing comes through. I give up. I start again. I change my clothes. I move to a different space but everything that I left behind remains with me. I change my voice but I say the same things. I recalculate. I evaluate. I give the new space a new lick of paint. I move in and move out. I observe. Perhaps a new light would offer my new space something fresh. Perhaps there’s too much light. Whatever I do, whatever I want to alter, I always return to the same point. What I could do without, I miss. Whatever obstacle I remove reveals a new obstacle. I believe that there’s nothing but obstacles; invisible forces. If my space was free of obstacles I’d have the obstacle of my body and mind. If I remove my body and mind I would leave behind the obstacle of my absence for someone else to remove from their space. Perhaps I could edit my circle of friends and replace them with a new circle of friends. I should listen to new voices, look at new faces. There are too many variables. I can’t get over these obstacles. I’ll never get over the obstacles that fill my existence. I’m constantly editing and re-evaluating but the new obstacles I have to get over replace the old obstacles I thought I eradicated. I could change my clothes or go about with no clothes. I could replace every obstacle with attractive obstacles. I could lose weight off my body but my mind only seems to retain more and more weight. Whatever obstacle I move is replaced with another one. Whatever obstacle someone removes, someone else replaces. Everything that I want to change is replaced by more objects and situations I want to change. No matter what I’m unable to do. No matter what I refuse to do. My space is cluttered by obstacles that obscure my goals. No obstacle, no desire or pain is sufficient. The choices aren’t sufficient. The climate isn’t sufficient. The era isn’t sufficient. Try as I might it’s not enough. It’s never been enough, therefore it won’t be enough. How am I supposed to create the perfect space and the perfect companion for this perfect space if it’s technically impossible to reshape my own space? How can I create the perfect story if what I add or remove, is hindered by insufficient language and information? I can try to change my tastes. Perhaps a certain sound from certain source could affect my environment. Perhaps a certain fragrance could affect my perception in a way that renders my environment more appealing. Maybe the secret is not removing everything but searching for the right combination and hoping the way that they interact with other subjects and objects provides a particular symmetry that can satisfy the space I long for. That could be possible if time itself weren’t an obstacle. Could my room by wider? What if I walked everywhere instead of using my car? Who would I meet, where would my eyes roam if I wasn’t expected to concentrate? What form of communication, in what language and combination could I express, to affect the spaces and minds of those who I sometimes meet and experience? My space is always obscured by the objects, experiences and situations others have placed in my path. There has to be a way, a correct combination, a code, a sensation, an act I can express that can create the perfect space. It must exist if the desire exists; even if I can’t identify what it is, let alone what my goal is. I once heard myself in a dream say ‘Just because there are words doesn’t mean that words are true.’ It’s a thought that keeps me awake. That thought alone is an obstacle. I think sometimes, what am I missing? Maybe I lost everything in my life because I couldn’t find a sufficient variable to create the perfect construction. Have I edited myself too much? Did I remove the important content that could have actually provided me with the perfect space to exist? I had a story to tell. I experienced a story but I probably edited the heart out of it. I edited the feeling. Only disconnected moments and fleeting images remain. What am I supposed to do? The more I hack away at everything, my past for example, the more vines, reeds, foliage obscure my path. I chip and peel and chop but the obstruction grows, entwines and creeps. I don’t even know where the path is supposed to go. I’m constantly trying to cut and edit a space where I can see its direction…a way out…but it’s already behind me. Behind is the mess and decay. I had dreams and I hacked at them. Hacked them all away. Hacked every obstruction. I couldn’t reassemble them now if I wanted to. I can mask the injuries. I mask the memories. I place an obstacle in front of another one. I must beat a path to my end. Remove every obstruction. Remove time. Remove every new growth. Remove the very root of every idea. Hack it away. Reveal the light. Restore myself. Use my decreasing strength to hack away every pleasure and pain. Get to the end. So I can convince myself that I did my best. I can’t turn around to look at the mess I left behind. Only then might I have a space suitable enough to live in and story worthy enough to share.