The perpetual now. I’ve always loved that phrase. It’s been the locus of a progressive brain itch over the last few days, though. Is this long blur I humbly call my life a product of that mindset, that affliction, that way of life? Is that generational characteristic in me? Is it what makes last week slightly fuzzy, turns high school into a string of vivid photographs with nothing in between, renders everything prior as a great gray fog?

As many theories as I’ve entertained about my lack of retention of my own history, a new one every three months it’s seemed at times, to have it explained away as a short attention span bred by my environment—to swing the finger of blame towards the sociological whipping boy of the century, MTV—well, it give the impression of a lack of complexity. The only thing that separates a sentient being from a coffee maker is complexity. We are defined by our complexes, so to speak.

Typically of me, this is just another vaguely unsettling theory, with no conclusions drawn as yet.

Whatever the theory of he moment, however, the effect has not faded over the last few months. My lapse of judgment in not fixing any part of it in permanence by writing it down has destined this time to eventually join the other lost periods, given a month, a year, five. It’s a strange sensation, to preemptively mourn for four months of your life.