Notes for me, and not for you

Life takes on immediacy
Memory has become somewhat circular
More circular
More circular than usual
The immediate can be tracked and assessed
But all life in seasons
Eras
Movements
I can romanticise it and call them scenes
At the beginning of each new scene, the information from the one before it vanishes
Or is cycled
Discarded
Some kind of memory purge, dump to one of the electrical collectives in the brain
Or some mystical construct
Why not
Why not be irrational, romantic, fantastical
Why not some mysterious realm of the metaphysical
Of different shapes and colours and planes
Like a children’s book
Minimalist and surrealist
I was ever so close to beginning with the text keeping track, after-all, that’s what I’m doing
But it’s been oh so many months that I can’t remember
Nor count
Keep track of
The moment I think the necessity to do it has ceased, the moment I lose everything
Perhaps not a circle
Perhaps knot theory
That may be better suited
A circle simply repeats in a predictable and perfect path
Not so
And this evening I realised that supermarkets are bad places for me
Something in them accelerates my paranoia
Or perhaps my paranoia accelerates itself
Accelerates fear or disconnection from context
Premature memory-dump
I’ll get it back
It comes back
It always comes back
In what shape I don’t know, how can I tell the difference between what it looked like on the way in to what it looks like now
All I have as proof of its existence is its existence itself
A self-perpetuating myth
Something that can be fluid and change
Altered by endless perversions of time and experience
And so it would seem the very linear rigours that these processes so commonly progress along no longer exist
Or perhaps they do
Perhaps it doesn’t matter
It both matters and does not
And all the usual paradoxes

I’m getting good
Every day I get better
Better at masquerading as a linear being
I can live from daybreak to sunset without anyone knowing any different
I’m getting so good, I’m beginning to fool myself
So in some strange double, triple-blind, wellness… brings me to a place where I am doubly more sick than I normally am
The paranoia, yes
I’ve asked myself that
The paranoia could be contriving mechanics by which wellness feels unnatural, perhaps feeding the illness, keeping it alive
Except that the same things are happening again
But this time different
Different because of drugs
Different because of people
Different because my perception of everything keeps changing
I have grown lax in nailing things down
Or perhaps I’ve discarded the practice
I ask myself whether or not I truly am ill
Yes
That’s what we do these days
We do not denote a malady
We use the term different
Different physical abilities and impairments
Different belief systems, ethos
Different demographics, ages, characteristics, personalities…
Hmm
Perhaps I’m only ill when I murder someone or set my car on fire or spend all my money on cocaine then pour it all in the river
I love film
I love dire film
I love film that others won’t watch
Somewhere in the back of my head an old manifestation of myself laughs at people not wanting to watch sad films or scenes where sad things happen
But it’s beautiful
It’s the destruction of life
Poetically expressed to celebrate grief and loss, and that destruction
In art it is inescapable to see ourselves
So so true
And I keep my secrets well
I think I’ve said that exact line at least three times that I remember
And the more ill I become, the more closely I guard my secrets
They will exist only in abstract
So abstract that even I will lose track of them
And then they will be free
In some contrived universe where symptoms are people

Why not
Why not express it artistically

But it’s not art
It’s not art at all
It’s not an abstract of my experiences
It is my experience