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prev.cont.I looked in the mirror, bracing myself for the usual discomfort. I looked and looked, but the discomfort never came. There was no shame, no desire to avert my eyes from the person who looked back. This was a different person, someone who looked like he knew what he was doing.
When the eye contact started to feel awkward, I turned off the bathroom light and went outside. The world was cold and white, and the sun was already starting to get swallowed up by the trees. It occurred to me, as it sometimes does, that time was still moving. I remembered that time was the one thing I’d had all along, the one thing I’ll have until the end. I’m always forgetting.
I looked at my watch: still a few hours until bedtime. I felt envious of the sun and its sinking. Why couldn’t I get swallowed up by the trees? Call it a day and see if there’s anything going on tomorrow? But that’s not how this works. No skipping ahead. You have to ride it out.
When I went back inside, I looked at the plants on the windowsill and felt like a horrible person. The leaves were reaching toward the window, as if begging to be set free. Why do I keep them inside? I imagined them looking out, seeing all the other plants covered in white, some of them dead, and getting jealous. I was holding them captive, forcing them to stay alive while their siblings die.
“You Belong With Me” was playing on the shitty radio in my brother’s room, Taylor’s voice distorted and staticky. It occurred to me, as it sometimes does, that the moment was perfect. I decided to sit with it, because perfect moments don’t come around often. Just then, the song ended, and the radio station went to a commercial break. The perfect moment slipped away as soon as I’d noticed it, as usually happens in these kinds of situations.
I didn’t notice I was in autopilot until I the perfect moment was ripped away without my say in the matter. It made me want to take matters into my own hands, turn the autopilot switch off, and actually do something with this free will I’ve been given. I thought about walking over to my brother’s room and starting a conversation: “Hey, what’s up? Did you like that song? It sounded kinda cool, all staticky, right?” I didn't.
What stops me from stepping out of my mind and into the world? Why don't I let my consciousness out to play when it presses its face against the window, waiting to be let outside? The question comes back like a recurring dream: What is the thing that separates me from action?
Maybe it’s the panopticon, that mysterious guard’s tower in the prison of life from which a warden is perpetually (possibly) watching my every move. It's everywhere now, even in the underground.
I talk to myself down there. I say things you shouldn't say out loud. I notice the blue light of a camera. My mouth snaps shut. I imagine the people on the other side shaking their heads and writing something down in a notebook that I’ll never see.
My first impression of the new year is that it’s weird. I think it’s going to get weirder. I’m a little scared. I suppose I should just stay calm, remember the thing about the autopilot, remind myself that time is all I have, and smile for the camera.
That seems like a lot to remember. I’ll forget by tomorrow.
exit