Discontinuous play

Looking back at all the things that were ever done, remembering entire lives while falling asleep, I realize that I am not the person I remember in these actions, environments, and sensations. I feel discontinuous. As if I am not one thing but many separate individual things in their individual times. Whatever was done back then is not done by me now. And knowing this, I know it will be the same for any future that comes here, good or bad. It makes it somehow tasteless in any way I imagine it. Almost as though everything is meaningless. And yet somehow it isn't. And yet, I participate in this – even when I feel insignificant, even when I feel not exactly real, even when I want to give up. I am a player in this, perhaps one with impossible to think about right moves, inactive or futile in objecting, still one. Because the game goes on in its unique ways, no matter what I believe. And in this way everything is real, self-significant, and somewhat urgent.