I make fun of myself for fictional things. The other day, I was laughing at the idea of keeping a dream journal or a work journal. I was telling a co-worker after being asked how my shift went, that I was going home to write about it in my work journal. In my head, it had been a long and arduous shift. I laughed at my response as I waited at a red light listening to Tejano music on the radio.
I’ve begun to gauge my successes based on make-believe situations. In my mind, I’m frequently being interviewed about things I only hope to accomplish but in reality, never start. “Tell us how you came up with the idea. Explain your process.” The photographic negative of myself is very prolific. It taunts my textural self from the shadowed dimension just out of reach. That dimension is the measure of hope or longing or disgrace or a million versions of suicide considered.
Though the finite moments experienced by us stack up like a skyscraper, the things that will never happen define the upper atmosphere of modern life. This seems to be the diseased condition of my mind. I’m seeing a universe of moments only in my head. They will never enter the textural world. I’m threading the needle of a running illusion. This function of my imagination seems flawed and malevolent.
I’ve begun to focus only on simple tasks and the base execution of them. I do push-ups and sit-ups in order to feel a vague physical relationship with my cells and blood-rush. Order is now a path to reason and the eternal evidence of reality. It holds my photographic negative self at bay and lets me live out this temporary permanence.