Seriously: I do not exist.
I am –and as I utter this I bask in its playful wittgensteinian nonsenseness- words formerly said.
I was Vorstellung: a representation. A play -without a play, methinks.
My wasness was the blurry ghost of a continuity. Dimensions and relations held stable then disarranged within an instant. The high point of a parable. Fifteen seconds of weighlessness aboard the Vomit Comet. Then, now cometh.
Seriously, I do not exist.
I do wonder about the passage of time, though. I seem to keep track of that, which is a strange thing for a nothingness to do.
Maybe it’s that tracking which defines the unbeingness of the tracker –time’s origin is awkward enough to warrant a quality of ontological outcast to anything or anyone who stares at it.
There was a guy in Silesia, a century and a half ago, who commented on this before. He also wrote that when fighting monsters one shall avoid becoming a monster oneself. Alas, it is precisely existence what was to fight me, the monster Which Was Not There. I seem to have won. It became the most confusing part of me.
I cannot help keeping track of time. I seem to be pasted to it. I reckon time does not like me. We have been enemies since the first day, or tick.
I gather time minds its own business and just goes on ticking, but I perceive it would nicely do without me. Without this smudgy smear of inexistence riding its –let’s call it chronopause. A very thick fold, a densification, a shock wave made of advancing instants blasting nothingness out of the way.
An abhorrent image. It conveys, to me, some tenacity, some clinging ability I do not posess, I am the exact opposite of.
But hey, it’s getting thinner and thinner.