Memento Mori
I know you’re wondering. I did know. I suppose it would have been better for me to completely disengage, to obey the one-way street signs and rush toward the future. But the future wasn’t there yet; we did not have here, your shuddering singularity, the endless now.
Most of the time I preferred the virtual to the real, by which I mean of course language to images. Images have such power, yet are dangerously flat. You pass by a mirror and are caught by your reflection, the sum of your decisions cascading in reverse. I did look, occasionally. I had to. But as much as possible I looked at letters instead, their referents and gestures softer, more forgiving. I would lose myself circling through possible worlds, refining and restoring all future, perfect selves, matching each to each.
But it didn’t match. Each morning would bring with it the harsh outlines and endless shadows of northern light, all my possible worlds collapsed by the event horizon of the real, with me racked along its edge, stretched inexorably past time itself.
