A dream voice said, “think of the process”, and everything faded away

The past is a palimpsest of collected epic, presenting as a distinct mythical period.

My golden age. The high water mark.

I aced the grades, swam naked in phosphorescence, fucked the prom queen.

It’s just a story is the whole issue.

There’s nothing behind me.

The authentic self is just another sockpuppet.

I built this ego petting zoo. This map. The archive.

This Petri dish.

My culture.

It’s only there when I look at it.

The contents of consciousness evoke a visceral reaction, so I keep watching.

I’m a false sense of agency in a virtual matinee.

Maybe I could detach in real time. Unshould my life.

Unidentify.

Disassociate.

And it’s not so much about sloughing memories, EMP whiteout, as much as a global change in protocol.

As Mr Tolle says, not reacting to content. To all the self-sown clickbait.

Fuck the schema. The world is a wireframe.

My state of mind is a state of mind.

Forgiveness is for the forgiver.

It’s just a story, but the cool north wind tastes like mountain streams tastes like freedom.

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