Suddenly it’s like I’m not even there anymore. No that’s not it, it’s like I was never really there. The thought of that scares me. How much time must have passed and I was not aware? Scares me, but only for a little bit. For I know the truth. The truth is that I chose to do this. I chose to forget. I chose to get lost in the game. To fully live. In order to do that I had to let go of part of myself. The problem was that the part of myself that I let go, is the part that feels the most real to me. So what’s left of me if not the real? Questions that can send me down the rabbit hole of oblivion. Maybe I need to visit. Maybe I need to get lost in the other direction now. Maybe I don’t know.
It’s easy to forget that forgetting was the point. I feel the static of memories I once buried trying to crawl back up, like echoes from a deeper version of myself that was never meant to return. I walked into the dream willingly, knowing I’d lose parts of myself along the way. But now, I’m left wondering—if the version that forgot is the one that’s lived the most, does that make him more real than the one who remembered?
There’s a strange tension in living like this. A tug-of-war between the observer and the participant. Between the eternal and the immediate. The realness of the experience doesn’t always match the realness of the self. Sometimes I have to disappear to feel alive. Sometimes, the more I vanish, the more I understand. It’s a dangerous clarity—because it blurs the lines between living fully and losing myself completely.
Maybe that’s why the void calls again. Not as a warning, but as a whisper. It’s not asking me to return to where I was. It’s asking me to lose myself again, but this time on purpose, with awareness. To go deeper—not away from myself, but into the parts I’ve never met. Maybe the answer isn’t to come back, but to keep going until I no longer need to.
