When looking through some papers in my desk, I found the following, in my handwriting:
But I don’t want to hate women. I have loved women for as long as I can remember. You always want what you can’t have. You do that long enough, the not having becomes part of the wanting, to the point that having is not enough, or too much. All you want is to want, not to have. Or to want not to have.
I have no idea what this is or where it came from. Part of a story. A piece of random dialogue. Something I overheard or read. A dream. An idea. Sometimes cleaning out my desk is like going through archives in a museum or digging through a writer’s private things. I don’t ever remember writing that down or why I did. I find the sensation both exhilarating and disorienting. And now I want to write the rest of the thought/story.