The words slip off my tongue once again, and I cringe. I’ve had this conversation before—and no, this isn’t a lapse of memory, a neurological failing created by endless neurons misfiring—this is the script, the loop, and I hate it. No one else seems to notice, or maybe they do, because I pretend not to notice when they do it too. They retell the same stories at least once a week, “remember when…” and guzzle down soda and fries, recline in front of the TV, laughing about a life they no longer live. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism as we fade away. But some of these people exist outside four walls, and they still engage in the repetition. What is it? Compulsive? Because I feel like the more I break free of my designated station, the more life falls apart. The system is glitching when I leave the map, as it tries desperately to generate pixels for me to perceive.
I do not exist unless perceived.
I am never perceived.
I perceive myself.
But it can’t be enough.
The script repeats again. Same people, different faces. Same chapter, different font. Sometimes they’ll find something new—a new opinion, and so proud they are of this newly found gem, they burn it out within weeks… but it stays, tired, weary, “isn’t it strange no good music has come out since 2020? No one is creating anything anymore.” You hear others start to say it. They all say it to each other. The same-each-other day after day. I agree for the tenth time this week, even though I don’t agree at all. I think there has been plenty of beautiful, amazing music—authentic music, stripped of the, ironically enough, same repeated lines with a cheesy pop beat.
Aging breeds hate and trickles down to the youth.
“Do you remember when…”
The good times. Sitting inside four walls.
I feel like I woke up one day and no one was real.
No one but me.
That’s always been my biggest fear, and I wonder if it was somehow rooted in this subconscious awareness of the scripts. The loops.
And I have to wonder if there is someone else out there, not snake oil selling spiritualists who keep going on about yellow houses and red cars in their channeled readings because the algorithm demands it, but who really sees this reality for it is. What it was. What it will be.
And if we met, would they even recognize me? Or would they notice the compulsive scripts pouring from my mouth the moment I am perceived?
I listen to Johnny Cash with the window open. I made it to the edge of town but turned around. I can’t leave the map. All roads lead to you. Where are you?
I wish, I wish, I wish…
One more hour until I clock in. I think of how the ex-husband and I would play The Sims and how much he loved the Open 4 Business expansion pack, and how I preferred to make my Sims create and fall in love. In a simulated reality with endless possibilities, I created magic and he created routine.
And we’d argue about the same things on repeat.
Rinse and repeat.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Rinse.
Repeat.
I fear every time I start to remember, my body collapses, but this time it was loud. The water droplets on the glass shower walls.
I do not exist unless perceived.
I am in the water droplets.
Fear. Cold. Hot. Am I dying? Is this some about-to-experience-DMT-release moment of oneness?
I feel like I woke up one day and no one was real.
The system is glitching.
I do not exist unless I am perceived.
I am in the water droplets.
I am in the water droplets.
Remember when, remember when, remember when
Rinse. Repeat. Rinse Repeat.
Script. Repeat the script.
Rinse. Repeat. Repeat the script.
I do not exist unless I am perceived.
I do not exist.
I do not exist.
Remember when.
I do not exist.
I am a little girl inside the water droplets.
Remember when I was a little girl
Rinse. Repeat.
Repeat the script.
I do not exist
Glass
Showers
Water
The system is glitching.
I collapse into bed and cry.
I don’t want to remember when I stopped existing. When I was a little girl. When I lived inside water droplets in a glass shower. Why am I remembering this at 36?
Every moment begs to be seen—but I live in a world that cannot see, and so isolated am I in my remembering, my trauma, my creation, my pain. So eager am I that I beg like a child to be seen.
Look at me.
Nobody can see me.
Look at me.
I do not exist unless I am perceived.
Look at me.
Look at me.
Why can’t you see me?
Did I get stuck in the water droplets?
Did I get stuck in a simulation
Where no one else is real but me?
Water droplets.
I exist. I exist. I exist.
I wish, I wish, I wish
Serendipity Minds 