Something is emerging from the darkness. It has been, actually, from the very beginning. I feel, actually, that I am on a trail, on a hunt, and that this is my task and my purpose. I am hunting something that eludes me but always stays close—within reach. It is faster and cleverer than I am. It knows how to camouflage itself, knows my weaknesses well and knows how to use them. But it also knows that I can—that I have it in me to catch it. And that is exactly what it wants—for me to catch it. That is what it wishes for me, and what, deep down, it helps me do, for my sake and its own. Because in some way it is part of me. It is my mirror image. Its will and freedom are reflections of my freedom and my will. Or rather, I am the reflection. Of course. I am the one who is incomplete, and I am the one on the hunt. I am the one in the world of shadows and reversed angles, the one stumbling through the half-light or standing blinded by the light, forced to look away. A game of cat and mouse in which the cat only dreams of its power. It is driven by the urge to catch the mouse and tear it to pieces. But when it catches up, there is nothing to tear apart, because it has been chasing its own tail. A cat—its own tail—what shame and humiliation. C. S. Lewis got it slightly wrong. It is not the lion who is the all-powerful, all-knowing king, but the mouse. The vole, the shrew, the guinea pig.

What am I talking about? Everything. Absolutely everything, without exception, that presents itself to my feeble, rather dim mind through a body limited in countless ways. I understand none of it when I stop and try to understand. But I feel, ever so faintly, that I can understand when I give myself over to instinct, pick up traces of a trail and follow it. When I break into a run, even though I am exhausted and would rather sit down, lie down, feel sorry for myself and pretend to myself that I am doing it to rest and get a better view of things. That I will weigh everything up, consider it all, make the right decisions, and only then rise and advance towards clear goals with a dignified, measured step, to universal admiration. Well, none of that. If I lie there, I will rot.

I am talking about concrete, tangible things. About what I actually do, though I have almost no idea why or what for. Almost, because something is indeed emerging from the darkness. Sometimes I remember something and am struck by its barely graspable yet unmistakable significance and rightness. Sometimes, for the blink of an eye, I see even more—the significance, rightness and order of a larger pattern, and my place within it. At times I feel that now I know what to do and how to do it. How to live, how to write. These are illusions, but not entirely. They are afterimages, or before-images. I turn to follow them, because what else would I do? Navigare necesse est, vivere non est necesse.

From what I write, and how I write it, a larger order sometimes emerges. I sometimes allow myself to think that I am inventing it. I examine it, trying to name its elements and establish a framework for future work. I try to make future decisions easier for myself. This excites me. It also arouses distrust, yet draws me in more and more. It often leads me astray, too, but I have weathered a few things by now, and I can spot certain traps from a distance. Right?

What now? I have received a commission that is, in a sense, ideal. From an individual who represents no institution, no programme or ideological position, but simply sees value in supporting the creation of new works and has the resources to make such philanthropy possible. Someone who also believes in complete artistic autonomy and takes care to safeguard the artist’s independence from any unwanted pressures or influences. In the spirit, close to my heart, of ocean sailing, constrained by nothing but the boundless element. I have a fully equipped yacht, I have the experience and skills I have gathered, I have a destination port. Once again, I am setting out from harbour.