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.
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.
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.