So far away from what used to be

I am so far away from who I was a week ago, a month ago...

How the hell does that happen? Not only the slippery formation of self, the daily construction and reconstruction, as well as the daily dissipation and erasure, but the whole memory thing?

How is it that we forget so much of what was just so recently so damned important? Life shaping?

How is it that we are so willing to let go of our personae?

A few weeks back I was so absolutely riveted by Michael Ventura and now, without the visual reminder, and archive, I am almost wholly oblivious to that.

I feel like a bird, flitting from branch to branch. I am never the same bird, in the same moment. A new branch, a new bird,
with only the insistence to live in the moment pressing on to the next. I don't fly backwards, I don't retrace my steps, or hops...

I mean, even the fucking laundry remains the same. A shirt is a shirt--it doesn't remake itself or forget its shirtness if you wash it or if it sits ignored in the closet for years. It remains relatively stable.