Agamben man (A Message to the nonexistent)

I am sitting in a room going stale. Two chairs, one table, a lamp, those are the items that comprise the totality of the room and my existence. My fist supports my fluid filled skull, and I sit hunched over looking into the thing, the thing being everything. I have moved only once since I became aware of my existence, and for a very brief interval. Since that time I have sat, hunched, seeing the thing that is everything that could have been, every word that would have been, the sights that weren’t seen. My days are spent like this. Wide eyes open, staring, until I pass out and then awake, only to find myself in the same position. I cannot move.

In my eye, the one outside of the fluid and skull, the one connected to my optic nerve, as I have said, I go over each thing, every nonsensical word, abrupt gesture, and random occurrence. I hop onto the table, I poke the wall, fall into the floor and emerge standing on the ceiling while the room melts, and then say the word “Jar!” Then my eyes, you know the one I told you about, do it again, now ending with a different inflection, then a slightly different word. Imagine each possible event that could have transpired as you sat reading this, dear imaginary muse. Imagine the many thoughts you could have thought, the spasms that didn’t happen, the orgasm unexpected. I have done it. I have. Of course I am only millennia away from finishing my task, but that OBVIOUSLY isn’t the goal. No. The goal is not to do.

I did once. Once, when I sat hunched over after coming into consciousness, I reached over to the lamp and felt its warmth, without touching it. It passed beautiful heat into my index and middle fingers, and I passed out and awoke in my position. My position. I have made it mine, it is mine, and if no other action, thought or pose is rightfully mine, I claim this can belong to no other. Don’t position yourself in my position. Please.

Now I have to cease casting brainwaves out into the abyss that is outside, because I know I haven’t written, spoken, or done anything, but I have merely thought these thoughts to some being which will never see them. I have to stop now, because I know there is no magic fairy to receive my thoughts and write them, and hold them, and cherish them, but there is just me, in my room, with my hand in a fist on the base of my jar, supporting the fluid and matter in my skull. Maybe I have been alive for a day, but maybe forever. Regardless, you have never been at all. Goodbye now imaginary men, I must continue my task, and you must continue to not be.