But I'll be here in my cocoon— the one from which I have no expectation of emerging transformed into a butterfly, or perhaps at all. Even the mini-metropolis now seems distant, though I hear it and smell it all around me. My connection to it seems ever more tenuous, as though I were passing through some invisible barrier and will leave the world altogether. The passersby I hear on the bike path, or see on the street or in the parking lot of the apartment house next door, might as well be ghosts... or maybe I am.
I go through daily routines, or ignore them, and don't even remember having done or not done them. I must have eaten dinner, for example, as I see dirty dishes and pans, but I have no memory of the event. I probably could remember, if I tried, but the fact is I've lost any desire to do that. About the only thing connecting me to reality is music, and these nightly collections of words I read and write. Perhaps I've been swallowed, and now exist only in the belly of the Internet beast.
But then I still see the future, in the form of weather, for one thing, and still anticipate shopping for things I'll use and forget having used. So far it seems my detachment is only from the past, and the present as it slips into the past. I don't recall the early lines of this journal entry, but the thought of the covers of my bed awaiting me looms very large. The oblivion of sleep is what I find alluring. It's like magic. And also a square of chocolate with almonds. That is undeniably magic. I won't deprive myself of it a moment longer.