immemoria (fiction)

(1)

They’ll laugh when they don’t understand you and they’ll laugh when they do. He was very tired, she could tell by the colors around his eyes, he’s tired and so am I.

I feel helpless against the surveillance state, against the inexorable spread of technology. The worst part is that it’s not fit to write about. Maybe it’ll pierce me to the core, cataloguing every corner of my Self, and an aura of information will crown my head.

We’re the first to suffer these indignities. He told me that he time-traveled to the year 2000 in a dream. To stop the terrorists, to stop the government, or something. Did you succeed? Well, I woke up, he said. I woke up too soon.

Once I read that the Internet makes people glassy. That means it either makes them perfectly transparent or given to revealing themselves through a veil of distortion; I’m not sure which.

I also read that past-life regressionists work by hypnotic suggestion, implanting false memories into their patients’ unconscious minds. They might tell you in a past life you were an escaped slave that died before reaching safety.

If you’re into past lives you should take an interest in epigenetics, too, he said, it’s always relevant in a post-genocidal society like ours.

(2)

Someone told me that we remember our Internet browsing history as if it were a dream.

I remember none of it, he said to me.

None?

Only porn, conversations with other people, and extremely interesting pieces of writing.

In 2016 fiction writing strikes my friends as a disordered language game, its relationship to words as arbitrary as the rapid-fire associations made by the schizoaffective. This is what happens when you lose your intuitive feeling for reality: moments cease to be irreducible. They become atomized in order to make themselves available to a taxonomy. It’s a sort of fascism too. The imagination breaks; storytelling becomes an impossible art.

In 2011 one girl told me that her therapist diagnosed her with “hyperrationality disorder.” She was just intellectualizing herself out of her sadness, he said, and that’s a slippery slope.

I wouldn’t have agreed back then —  I would have protested, taken the explanation as haughty. But I could have if I’d been more wise. I know now, I know I know there’s a way out of this and it’s not through.

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