i forget what follows forgetting. the moment after the blank doesn’t announce itself; it just arrives already present, like a stranger who claims to have always lived in my house.
when i forget, i do not lose. i become rearranged. the absence finds a shape inside me, and i walk around carrying it, heavy as silence, soft as moss.
i forget what follows forgetting. maybe its remembering, but bent, distorted, growing sideways like a plant in a dark room. maybe its another forgetting, a chain of vanishings that pulls me further inward, until even the idea of “i” is another misplaced thing.
forgetting is a doorway that pretends to be a wall. and each time i cross it, i forget that i have crossed it before.
i forget what follows forgetting.
the air tilts, time stutters, and i lean into a gap that should not be there.
i forget what follows forgetting.
language loosens, vowels spill, consonants turn brittle. meaning falls apart like a persimmon dropped too many times.
i forget what follows forgetting.
a spiral opens, not forward, not backward, but inward, and the inward has no floor.
i forget what follows forgetting.
it is not loss, not quite. it is folding, a soft distortion, a place where thought curls into itself like smoke.
and i do forget, what follows forgetting.
and in that forgetting, i remember i have always been there.