Sometimes one can be so drawn into the pleasure of their sensing-body that we might be mistaken to lapse into idyll, for it is then that Life will remind you of your own facticity. The scorching ray of an all-seeing eye falls on you, and you are brought crashing into an outline of yourself. Who we have been anchors us, a Protestant fetter that privileges one to carry it to this day.
We might disagree on the nature of organism and its connection to cogito, but we all agree on disliking being interpellated. In the course of a life, we grow an avatar that connects to the web on our behalf; and if we fail to repay our debts, it is the solemn duty of the creditor to stick pins through our hollow joints, sending bolts of screaming blue out of the interface. Sometimes we might lapse into idyll, and need to be reminded of our own facticity. The iron edifice of fiduciary obligation.
There’s no more rude reminder of our contingency than through manipulation of this post hoc self. Debt hangs like an alien spectre that phases into the corporeal when you require discipline. A creature of the imagination, yet with the power to turn one’s vision black with pain from nowhere. Don’t make me do it. I don’t like it any more than you do. The trace of the way we lived in the world; who we are, best understood as that which we are no longer. A tether to the past, an Albatross, but—let’s be honest: have we really changed? Aren’t we still the same desperate phylum scrabbling for survival, borrowing money without a plan for how to pay it back from someone whose memory is liable to split our mind’s dioptre?
Remember? Remember? Still there, out of sight but adjacent, still in the same world as you.
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