Message from Space

I have come to the conclusion that certain alien parties once claimed to be vis-à-vis with this operation (ie: “on this agent’s side” and “responsible for this agent’s protection”) have turned to the other side and are even now speeding out of orbit where they have left me to die. Though nominally still maintaining their position of responsibility (I receive regular updates claiming that they are only “undergoing routine checks” and that “everything looks fine up here”) it is clear from their extended absence and the limited supplies of oxygen left for me that their intentions are malevolent. In all likelihood this will be my last transmission.

An Explanation

For a long time, I wasn’t able to do anything. Perhaps this is trite, or even cliché, but my surroundings imposed themselves on me, overwhelmed me, paralyzed action, thought, movement, speech. Thinking of a thing was as much work as physically enacting whatever my thought suggested. So it often was that I became tired just thinking of a thing, and would sooner forget it, rather than feel so overwhelmed, drained, exhausted. Curiously, during this time, I was able to write. Writing, as I’ve often said, isn’t movement or action or even thought but an activity that is between action, before thought. So it was that I was able to remain, or attain, whichever you prefer, a state of mind where I was buoyant. A certain buoyancy. Which far from being self-sustaining was in fact perhaps deleterious to my overall mental health, because even as I knew the writing was going well, that I was, in fact, writing—as opposed to typing, which I am doing now—this buoyancy prevented me from coming to certain conclusions about myself which were, perhaps, necessary; my reluctance to come to these conclusions only postponing the moment when the matter would, so to speak, come to a head.