Forget it

Remembering is probably the next best thing to amnesia — the suffocating, debilitating, insufferable malaise I call “Oh. I forgot.”

Not the Firsts, not the Never Agains, not even the How Did I’s: all lost the the unrelenting onslaught of oh. I forgot.

Not for want of a better alternative, of course. Illusions of grandeur fading — this sub-human condition inescapable: perhaps is my sole et tu, brutus.

I remember the abyss.

Of entrapment, of the ceaseless spiral. Of misunderstanding — or perhaps malunderstanding.

The sallow strains hard to detect under smiles too big to fail, granted.

The bona fide surrender taken for granted: merely a scratch on a forlorn wreck.

No illusions of grandeur. No triumphal New Self. Not even the slightest glow of prevailing against adversity.

Perhaps a different self, hardly recognisable: perhaps for the best.