02/01/26

I've lost reason to write, but when this happened last time, I was still able to. It feels like I'm in the throes of a neuro-degenarative disease. I'm not able to spell words or get my tenses right. Everything feels the same. My memory is declining and there are no visible signs of improvement. It's even worse in the mornings because I'm not able to get up. I have college, I have classes. Neither of which I can seem to be concerned about. If I try to get up, it's game-over. Severe migraines will grip me for the day.

I don't know when I became so bad at spelling. That's what this disease does, though. It feels like the logical culmination of all that I was. When I was 10 or 11, I attended this summer camp where they taught us how to solve the Rubik’s cube. I was, if my memory serves me right (which it doesn't), one of, if not the only one who was not able to grasp the logic. They didn't give us the notation. They made us start from the basics: identify and solve for the cross corresponding to the centre piece's color on each side (the white cross, the blue cross, the red cross, etc.) and then proceed to solve the corners, and so on.

It does have an affect. Nothing about where I am right now seems surprising given these factors. I have been doing empty brainwork. I idolize David Foster Wallace because I'm told to. I'm a muppet enslaved to the algorithmic gods.

All of this to say, I thought I should re-begin writing on here to see how far I can push myself before I collapse. Out of exhausation is the most likely reason. My lungs giving is the second most likely one.

I'll experiment until I cannot. I think I've learnt some things, however tentative they are. If you throw shit against the wall to see what sticks, something might. That's how good art is usually made. Or so I'm told.

But I'm not a good artist. I cannot throw shit against the wall consistently, everyday. My brain shuts down. My body, even more so. I drowse off. Much like Proust’s debilitating condition which rendered him a non-reader. He couldn't keep his eyes open for long.

He had memory to fall back upon. I don't have anything left and probably never had anything to begin with. Always simply tabula rasa, no chalk seems to work on me. It is erased as it is written. No trace remains.

Perhaps I write here for that very reason, hoping against hope that some trace remains.