Note to the Existentialist Self #1

Today, like most days, all you did was exist…
Like literally (as if there is any other way) >>> Existence isn’t a metaphor. Neither is that thing you call life, living, existing. Whatever.
If they are in any way figurative, then they are terrible, god-awful metaphors of themselves: Mirrors of mirrors. Shadows on the sun–Oxymorons without reprieve.

Today, like most days, all you did was feel your face with your coarse fingertips, a pimple here, a crease there, a scar here, a cut there, and then you landed on a misplaced hair so overgrown you slapped your brow with your palm and cursed, “How could I have not seen it?”

But how could you have seen it?

You forget that your relationship with mirrors and reflective surfaces has always been a treacherous one… But don’t despair, am sure its normal to be afraid of your own reflection, that thing that looks like you but isn’t really you.
That thing that was once closest to you, but now all familiarity has faded. That thing that reminds you of what you once were. Once. And Were…

Today, like most days, all you did was exist…
Perhaps its time for a change of pace, thing is, how do you measure pace?
Perhaps its time to make another effort at introspection, self-awareness, aggressive self-examination (mental forceps and kid-gloves allowed) but not too closely, maybe only like in that story they’d preach in Bible school… about attending a funeral service and walking up to the casket only to see yourself lying there >>>

Y’know, take a good look at your life, see yourself in the midst of your vast unbecoming.
And it’s okay if you feel like you’ve been asleep this whole time, its okay if you don’t know how to wake up, or if you even want to… It’s okay. Just don’t, and I mean it; don’t try to explain to yourself how you got here. Just don’t.

Because, well, today wasn’t a today. Not really.


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