all I will be remembered for

July 26, 2026

This is all I will be remembered for in the words of two men, one called Wallis, and the other called Linehan. You know one of them. The other you might not know. There may be more than just these men, but I want to focus on just these two for the time being, because their understandings of me are sonically and lyrically resonant. Both men know me, though we have never spoke. They know where I live. They know all the names I have ever been called. There's a type of quantum suicide on display here, at friction with an immortal personhood. These two men know how I feel, all that I hold close. Their knowledge comes from an open wound, one that is open to be inspected. Their salt is salt that fits. I do not think these men know just how much they know about me, but in an act of preservation for myself and those near to me, I have to remain scared.

The condition of my mental health, historic and present, is not something I wish for these men to know, but judging by their framing, phrasing and search for understanding in my existence, then I will be upfront. Whatever illnesses become me, they are beset from a devouring need to keep running, or a lack of a full time salary. I am happy in my body, and in fact, I am becoming happier within it. I look forward to growing older, to my impression and understanding of this skin becoming simultaneous with the world that surrounds us. This entanglement brings me, and I hope many others, a great joy.

One characteristic of both men is their assessing of me through the frame of my mother. These are two men who care very, very little for my language or prose or whatever. Nonetheless, this is how they will remember me. I enjoy cutting myself off. I like making sense of the space I have no command over. There is music to it, too.

Late last August, before we moved flat, my father called me to let me know these were dangerous people. Too, there were people who were interested in unwinding, unfurling, unveiling this break in flesh called a daughter. These men do not know me by these terms. That's fine, I don't care. I want to be left alone. Still, I want to reflect how much their reportage has haunted over me, intentionally or as a repercussion. I won't know.

I accept that I will not be remembered in any specific way. I cannot curate much beyond the walls of this blog. There is then meaning here, as much meaning as I can infer, cheaply, quickly, rashly, stupidly, frustratingly, directly, let me tell you now, now, now.