The other day as I was heading out I noticed a weird looking camera on a poll outside my building. It looked like a Flock camera. It wasn't, but it looked quite a bit like one—unsettlingly so. This morning on my way back I noticed the camera again. Time passed between these two moments, but in the moment itself, they felt the same, like time had collapsed on a point.

I notice the same thing when I go to bed. I lay down, I stare at the ceiling, and I think about how I did the same thing last night, how I'll do the same thing tomorrow.

Displacement Equals Zero

Every year I go visit my parents over the holidays. I don't really like travel; I didn't grow up doing much travelling and since I moved out I've always had this strange sense that the whole thing was unreal. You get on the plane, you feel sick for around twelve hours, and then all of a sudden, it's as though the world you left as you got on the plane ceased to exist, or ceased to have ever existed.

It feels a bit like a dream. You spent a week walking around your childhood home and wake up one day to find you had it backwards. Your dreams were reality and your past has been put to bed. You get on with your life. A life spent over week-long intervals in the Wabanaki Forest dreaming of a life in Cascadia eleven months out of the year. Or… vice versa.

Relationships long-distance in time

I really don't like the feeling—this feeling of time collapsing to a point—because time is something I only have so much of and my time is spent so self-similarly it feels like it's gone before it's even happened.

It's a statistic until it happens to you

So maybe I should take this as a sign that I need to get out more; that getting out more means getting out of your routine, not just the house.

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