The Endless Not
Sometimes I have the ocean roaring in my ears, in my head—not the intermittent breaks and ebbs of waves on the shore, but only the crashes—crashes, crashes, crashes—on an endless loop for minutes, hours sometimes. A stream of white noise. Vision becomes strained, as if I were only seeing clearly through the spaces in a chain link fence. But much of this is going on without my awareness—and only when it becomes suddenly silent and my vision resolves, refocuses completely, do I become aware of what has just happened. Where did those minutes or hours go? What was I doing? Was I here all along in my room, in my car, in my office, this museum—or did I go somewhere else and do other things: unconscionable things, while I was out on the waves?
“And now here I was, a first person singular. If I’d chosen a different direction, most likely I wouldn’t be here. But still—who is that in the mirror?”
— Haruki Murakami / First Person Singular