I remember one moment. I don’t think it was decision-making, but acknowledgement, that we were separate like branded cereal, manufactured by different companies, competing for the same shelf space. And in that moment I was like, “Fine, do my thing, and you, yours,” thinking it temporary like a post-Christmas hiatus of shows in a lull on terrestrial.
Except this wasn’t post-Christmas, but before it. Because I couldn’t fix every problem, and I still can’t, and there’s nothing liberating in knowing that. Instead, it’s a tiny bit damning, like patchy fake tan that won’t come off completely with fingernails or loafers. And the requests just keep on coming: if you want this fixed, then book it, call it, be the one that sorts it.
But I couldn’t organise a small scale anything, much less a rescue mission. My body’s intent on evacuating itself for a new skin, because this brain is obliterated, one white dot at a time. I wonder which memories it took with it, if function’s something I’ll get back, or reminisce over like Brad and Jennifer; remember when you felt something burn the exact second you burnt it? Yeah, me neither.
And I want to try. There are days on which I want to try. Think that I should. And others I can’t get a crisp picture. We’re pre-HD, when YouTube would judder and stop when you’d dare full screen it.
I’ll list the tiny increments if it’s helpful. But it’s not. Because none are the moment. Was I even there for it? At best, I’m a bystander, ill-equipped to call ambulances or a next of kin. Or to even just tell you what I think.