I haven’t written in a while; one of the reasons being it feels futile to immortalise a feeling as transient and quivering as this. Another reason, perhaps, because I don’t want people to think I am sad. A third – a corollary of the second – is that maybe I don’t want to think of myself as sad.
But if writing is to capture nothing but the potentiality of perspective (that is, all possible perspectives) then maybe it is not such a bad thing. After all, these are ‘just’ images. Writing does not make these words truth any more than a poorly painted self portrait changes my appearance.
Words are words are words
How to begin describing how I feel? It is the most permanent kind of temporality conceivable. Eternity frozen in a single second; movement suspended indefinitely mid air. I am in the most transient state of Being. Lightness in the Kunderean sense. Things feel removed, feel distant, blunt, muted. Vague. There is an unsurpassable gap between this and me. Between here and wherever I am.
It’s as though there is nothing tethering me to embodiment. This body is so precarious. I feel as though if the wind were to blow, I would fall out of my Self. Fall out of my Self and snap into an adjacent existence.
Is this nausea?
How long has this been inside me?
How long have I been inside this?
Days elapse and I still feel as though I am arbitrarily standing in the place of an imposter. Imprisoned inside flesh and bone, held down only by the slightest operation of gravity.
Were things (the makeup of the cosmos) to be organised in any infinitesimally different way, I am certain I would float away.
It’s so slight, so subtle, that at times I’m convinced it’s just an illusion. Just a trick of the (mind’s) eye. Maybe existence has always been this way…?
It is a chaos so ineffable it seems calm.
Maybe instead of waking up on the wrong side of the bed,
I woke up on the wrong side of my Self?
What else could explain this?