As I was going home, I walked past somebody's window and so I stole a peek inside. I saw the entire 1m x 0.5m fragment of the wall covered with photos of other people.
Whether it's a photo of you kissing that cutie in the mirror hanging over your bed, or the wallpaper of your girlfriends and you on the beach, or the photo of your loved one serving as a screen on your mobile, it marks the discrete difference between us.
It is a proof of your fundamentally humane ability to uphold relationships. It is a proof your fundamentally humane quality of being over time, connecting to your past.
I don't have either. I have no photos. The past is gone and I'm unable to see the future. It is much too overwhelming just to live in the present moment, becoming increasingly detached, because each remainder of how beyond the fringe I have gone already is too painful as it is.
And I'm not in those photos either. Just as I don't remember, I am not worthy of being remembered.
She said, they will only miss you when you're gone. No, they won't even notice.
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