approaches with a strange kind of irrelevance that I’ve never known before.
How do I feel?
Strange is the word for that, too. I feel indirect, disconnected, depressed, disinterfaced, as though I’m experiencing the world through a haze, through a curtain, through a membrane. I feel awkwardly forgotten and full of forgetfulness.
There’s a storm brewing outside today, but I say that with a distinct lack of convicton. I was just standing in it and the damn thing felt academic, theoretical, not-there. The storms are no longer real, just as they days are no longer real.
All feels manufactured, artificial, liminal.
As if this isn’t life; life is elsewhere or elsewhen. What we are living now is non-life, in-between, the negative image of being like a negative image on film, an inversion, an anti-real that presupposes the real whilst living in its shadows and crevices and calling it into existence by marking its ontological boundaries. The temporal underside, outside, genocide of the real.
It is as though this entire year is falling into an abyss of nonbeing, being rent from space-time by the machinery of cosmic metaphysontology, and we—because we happen to be standing in the middle of it—are in danger of being deleted as well.
This is what it feels like to be forgotten, not just by people or time or space, but by oneself. I forget that I exist. I forget that I am here. I forget that I am forgetting.