Signs of Life
Thought about it again, my own pointlessness, and I followed the trail of that thought until its logical end, and there I found it: I was an eternally present, impossibly preserved bundle of memories, carrying a body along, deciding through things and actions I had done, but couldn’t undo.
There I found my purpose: to break away from the weight of the ramblings of my mind, and live accordingly as if I couldn’t remember a single thing.
But I was asked over and over about this and then it was concluded that I was mistaken, that what I was doing was overwrought and distracting, but what was most uneasily strange and obnoxious that flowing through a time and a space, eternally creating memories in the moment, by the second, just so that I could barely, kind of, unnecessarily, and stupidly remember them? There was a joy in some of them, and also some sadness, and some things that only mattered then, and did not matter now, and I felt slowly sinking into a spiral: the same thing over and over, doing a memory, then remembering it badly, and then thinking about it to continue. The circumstances were different, as was the state of my feeble body, but the feeling remained the same.
The continuous thoughts in my brain led me to think that I had only one way out. But as a woman of strange erratic thoughts, I thought killing myself was only going to make things worse in the memory of others, which is not what I wanted, nor did I want to be remembered as a corpse, weak and bloodied in anyone’s memory. I felt alone inside, but outside, all I was projecting was a general insecurity that was so very relatable: a feeling of emptiness, a feeling of vacuousness, a feeling of going back and forth, and then, a feeling of having slept through a night, and woken up without any rest whatsoever, not only physical, but spiritual. I was at the dead end of my memories, because I couldn’t think of a single thing that could make it bearable.
There I continued making a memory after another, and even in those moments, where I looked out to the sunset, put my hands in my pockets, and stared intently, I realized I was making a memory, and that it wasn’t a very good one, and it wasn’t going to help me be who I needed to be. The laughter and the sadness and the strange happiness that existed in a life, in a loop, going in my mind, then in the moment, then in the brain, was exactly what I couldn’t get out: a persistent drilling that stopped and began and tormented something in me. My own sense of loss, my own personal flaws, my desperation at being who I was, my despair at finding absolutely nothing worthy of my life, and from then on, I walked and walked and walked until I was exhausted and slept and dreamt beautifully, because there, something else existed, beside myself, in the right disorder.
So were like these all the days of my life.