Disentanglement: a post-love story
by Amandeep Jutla
Listen, I know something? I’ve been talking to me, and, well, I know how I can be, right? That icy logic? Sometimes I’m ruthless. I was ruthless with me, so now I’m being ruthless with me. Just as I’ve convinced me of the truth, I’ll have to convince me, too. I know I don’t want to hear this, but I need to know: I don’t exist anymore, okay?
Yes, I know that I know that, intellectually. What I’m saying is, I need to understand it. I don’t exist, so – this is what it comes down to – I have got to stop acting like I still do. I want the truth? I already know it but maybe I have to hear it again: I have not existed for a while now.
I want an example? Let me be blunt: The last time I was intimate with me was over a year ago. I realize this, right? I haven’t even spoken to me in months. Why (I now ask me, icily and logically) would I persist in thinking about me, then? Why would that make any sense? In short, whence the wistfulness?
It bothers me that I can’t pinpoint the moment I stopped existing. Given causality, given linear time, there must have been one. Let me make it more concrete: there must have been a last time that I kissed me. When was that? I didn’t realize the last time would be what it was. If I’d known I would have tried to remember it, though, actually, I’m still trying to remember it, aren’t I.
Before I didn’t exist, I didn’t quite realize that pretty soon I wouldn’t. Now that I don’t, I still don’t quite realize it. If I don’t exist, who am I?