In the group chat my oldest friend asked me a question I would have answered honestly I started typing the answer then watched myself delete it and send the laughing emoji and ask about his dog
In the third stall on the fourth floor my green dot still on I read a message from Sam whose deck was due at four I typed I’ll loop back this afternoon turned my phone face down on my knee and waited for the message to go cold
I stopped picking up when my mother called the third time in a week because the third time she would tell me something I would have to carry into the meeting at two where I needed to arrive without it
My review used the word stretched I said thank you I asked what else which I had learned was the answer
This exquisite poem made me so sad. The willingness with which we erase our selves, for what? To better be extruded. To offer edgelessness so we don't cut into the ever-processing self-erasure of those around us, maximizing their own extrutability.
This hit like a quiet punch. The way you trace the slow erosion, deleting the honest answer, letting messages go cold, learning to say "what else" instead of what you mean, is devastating because it's so familiar. That line about the door clicking…
