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Writing is a form of meditation — that is, it is a process of release, emptying, waiting, savoring. I can write consciously, but I write much better, more interestingly, when I stop hearing the sublingual voice in my brain, and let my fingers reach for meaning: when I let my body — typing or handwriting — replace my mind.
We overrate our capacity for rationality; we assume, wrongly, that just because we hear a single voice in our heads, that that voice must be logical, consistent, whole; we assume that it must have a purpose and be purposive. No — often, it, the I voice, is just chatter, an accumulation of chatter, like a thousand alarm clocks going off at once, a thousand submodules all demanding their needs be met. I is we; we is I: we are a host, a hive — not a person. The person can write decently, but the hive composes symphonies and poems; the hive has a much wider, figurative approach: it sweeps up all the interesting bits of consciousness. It is the hidden, primeval forest in an industrialized landscape.
