A loving scold from a close friend and the silliness of Zizek! on Friday evening helped dissipate the malaise of the parallax abyss. What did I expect? All the answers? But, having to write something related, new, and under deadline isn't exactly what I wanted to take on right now. Could I, should I, refuse? What would happen if I just said that I preferred not to write it? Nothing, really. Maybe that's part of the abyss. Knowing that I will write it knowing that it doesn't matter if I don't. And, so I read Spurious, sharing, a bit (and out of its context in a beguiling, somehow soothing in its suspension, post), its temporality.
I write, drawing on bits and pieces I'd begun last year. It's pleasant enough; ideas coalesce. But there's no thinking, not really. It's automatic. I'm back doing what I do. It's different this time, that's true enough - a different topic, at least on the surface. But it's an extension of the same thoughts. I am of my time, I tell myself. I am absolutely of my time, there's nothing surprising about me. Of my time - a symptom - but of what? Of what disease?
As though I'd been hollowed out. Nothing inside. That's the disease, and it afflicts everyone.