It seems hard, in a way, to combine all the various shoddy notebooks and loose scraps of paper that have suffered the weight of my pen in the four or so weeks since the year began. When I look at them, they all seem to imply the same thing: speed.
I can’t be the only one to have noticed the speed at which everything seems to be flying right now, despite life also being incredibly slow. The world has taken on the life of a deep dream. You feel as though you are living out experiences in real-time, only to wake and discover that only mere minutes have passed.
January began, and then it carried on, and now it has disappeared, never to be seen again. It makes me think of old trinkets, toys, books, letters, clothes, instruments, pieces, threads, albums, artworks, notes, reminders and friends that have slipped away over the years. Somewhere, perhaps near Borges’s Library of Babel, lies my own record of all things possessed momentarily by myself. In there, a small yet significant pile of Juul pods and a copy of the Private Eye soaked in spaghetti sauce.
There is little to take stock of now for very little has occurred and yet so much time has passed it seems like there should be more to be proud of.