Lately I feel myself straying farther from Those Above.
Impulsive thoughts, uncomfortable thoughts, uncomfortable fantasies.
Unsteady. Melancholic. Withdrawn, silent.
As long as you ascribe to the Calendar Year Model, then eventually as one’s “age” bumps up so does some uncomfortable emotions. Youth is lovely not only in its capacity to see beauty, but also in its potentials. The bud yet to blossom.
But when your veins bulge a little more, and bags under the eyes get somewhat pronounced – when there is no longer a treadmill of checkpoints to hide under. I don’t know.
This is why it feels like straying from those above. Because as much as I don’t want to remember – as much as I don’t really want to exist anymore – I still am here. I am still existing. And the “days” turn into “years”.
I know almost tangibly that whatever one could acquire in this world won’t ever sate. The only satiation is found within.
It just feels contradictory to have to silence “yourself” while relying on your “inner self”. But that’s just a lower level of consciousness talking, you could suppose.
And at least I’ve gotten good at some self-induced amnesia. Life would be so much better if I forgot everything.
And I do, I do want to forget everything. When I see others flipping through their notes, I just don’t get it. I don’t get the whole note thing, never did, never will – that’s okay, the notetakers are probably the smarter ones.
I don’t want pictures. I don’t want phone calls. I don’t want text messages. I don’t really want anything archived. I don’t want dates scattered across my interface, my life. I don’t want meetings. I don’t want anything other than now. That’s it.
Because what is worth remembering? What is worth planning?
Reframed: why remember things when you can experience things? You could argue memories are the substances of new experiences, e.g. remembering how to make a fire lends to memories of cooking.
But I think that sort of thing is stored in a place higher, elsewhere. When you know how to make a fire, you will always and you won’t need to make a maintenance sort of notebox to keep in touch with it.
Yes, there are people in my life I will probably “never see again” as long as we’re stuck in this plane. But if I close my eyes, they can be right there. You can hear their voice. Hold a smile.
If I have to whither away into this room, I think that’s okay.
Having someone to love, or someone to help, or someone to hurry long, or someone to protect, someone to laugh with, things to laugh about – I know this is all dust in the wind.
I know I still have to stare at this desk at the end of it all.
And if I can’t find peace here, what’s the point? If I can’t be at peace sitting here avoiding everything but the mind, what’s the point?
There would be no point. That’s a life where almost 80% of one’s time is spent fretting, or depressing the day.
The good news is that others have accomplished this task. It is possible. It takes some gusto, but it’s very much a reality in waiting. There is a point, it just requires you to walk along each day.
So yes, I just want to fade away into nothingness and into that other reality. Eject from this body and float around the streetlights.
Maybe when we both unlock our psychic powers that’d happen, maybe.
It just makes me awfully melancholic to look at the world. I’d rather look at the made up world, or the world within, and I’d rather not exist anywhere but there frankly. So much so that I’m hesitant to interact with anyone again.
It’s easy to fear Death. But you know, I think it’s more of a relief than anything. Who wants to live with these invasive thoughts and fake memories?
Everything that I could possibly want can only be satisfied by turning into a god of sorts. So, I guess it’s either being a god or becoming ashes.