Mama, tell me — what do I have left?

妈妈，你说我还剩下什么？

我从电车站下来后，走到了一片马路中用于隔绝和吸音的绿化。躺下看天空的时候，我感觉很冷，视野里是纯粹的大片云与蓝。我想爬上那边的树，我躺在草地上，取下扣在钥匙上的瑞士军刀。割的时候我才发现，瑞士军刀其实没有刮眉刀锋利。我想我累了，我感觉自己离世界又远了一点，远了很多。我在吃饭时写下，我能感受到自己内在的消亡，它在趋近于死亡。肉体的消亡不是死亡的终结，可是我的感受又死了一点，它在一点一点的，消失。

我想尝试用言语的碎片去捕捉住我的片刻感觉，一种趋近于寂静的湮灭。但是写下这些内容的时候，我的感受被线性地描述出来，它被描述出来的时候，它已经不再存在。我感受不到自己的存在，也许是语言的隔阂，也许是别的什么的聚合呈现了某种放大的效应。我只感觉我在趋近于死亡，我知道我会在某一天结束自己的生命，这件事在我脑海里越来越清晰。

人，一种期望的聚合物。他们的期望，希望我不要离去，因为我的离世会带来他们的痛苦。他们告诉我，当下只是当下，事情总会发生转机。每个人这么说着，因为他们被困于他们自己的内心。每一个生命体，每一个意识，他们永远无法真正体会另一个意识的当下。意识想看到他者的视野，看到自身意识的存在。同时我知道，我在悬崖的边缘。

我盼望着，期望着，就像15岁时期望明天的明天我的希望就会实现。我创造出自己的期望，它成为存活的唯一推动力。但是解构之后，留下的是存在性的虚无。我想离开这具身躯，使它不再成为意识的桎梏。可是作为一种纯粹的进程，它存活于生物性之上。

我感觉恶心，恶心，恶心在于我的一部分被压抑。我能感受到，我能察觉，在我斟词酌句时，我的一部分思维被压抑。我想我仍然爱着还原论带给我的恐惧，消失殆尽的一切之美，如果我只作为意识存在的肉身，意识将成为肉身进程的软体。他好像误会了，还原论带给你危机，你为何还要靠近？我沉浸在存在性危机里，我说，它让我感觉忘我，忘我，而我在那时，溶解于长流。

我希望我不是在重复自己的世界，我已经无法用语言描述这种恶心，我很高兴我学会了写作这一条线性叙述性文本以将其一滴一滴排出体外。割开后，流下的是南极洲泰勒冰川之血。

恶心，恶心恶心恶心。从我的脑子里出去，离开，我的，意识。

旋转，旋转，割，割，旋转，旋转，割，割。

Mama, tell me — what do I have left?

I got off at the tram stop and walked to a strip of green planted between the roads for sound barriers. Lying down to look at the sky, I felt cold, my vision filled with nothing but vast cloud and blue. I wanted to climb the tree over there. I lay on the grass, unclipped the Swiss Army knife from my keychain. Only when I cut did I realize the Swiss Army knife isn't as sharp as an eyebrow razor. I think I'm tired. I feel myself one step further from the world, much further. I write this while eating, I can feel something inside me dying out, moving toward death. The body's dying out is not where death ends, but my feeling has died a little more, it is bit, by bit, disappearing.

I want to try to catch my momentary feeling with fragments of speech, a kind of annihilation approaching silence. But when I write these things down, my feeling is described linearly, and once described, it no longer exists. I can't feel my own existence, maybe it's the barrier of language, maybe it's something else converging into a magnified effect. I only feel I am approaching death, I know I will end my own life one day, this is becoming clearer and clearer in my mind.

Human, a polymer of expectations. Their expectations, hoping I won't leave, because my death would bring them pain. They tell me, the present is only the present, things will turn around. Everyone says this, because they are trapped inside themselves. Every living thing, every consciousness, can never truly feel another consciousness's now. Consciousness wants to see the other's view, to see its own existence. At the same time I know, I am at the edge of the cliff.

I hope, I expect, the way I expected at fifteen that the day after tomorrow my hope would come true. I create my own expectation, it becomes the only force keeping me alive. But after deconstruction, what remains is existential nothing. I want to leave this body, so it is no longer the prison of consciousness. But as a pure process, it lives on top of biology.

I feel sick, sick, sick is that a part of me is suppressed. I can feel it, I can sense it, as I weigh my words, a part of my thinking is suppressed. I think I still love the fear that reductionism brings me, the beauty of everything vanishing to nothing, if I exist only as the flesh that houses consciousness, consciousness becomes the software of the body's process. He seems to have misunderstood, reductionism brings you crisis, why do you still go near it? I am immersed in the existential crisis, I say, it makes me feel self-forgotten, self-forgotten, and in that moment, I dissolve into the long current.

I hope I am not repeating my own world, I can no longer describe this sickness in language, I am glad I have learned writing, this linear narrative text, to drain it out of my body drop by drop. Cut open, what flows out is the blood of Taylor Glacier, Antarctica.

Sick, sicksicksick. Get out of my head, leave, my, mind.

Spin, spin, cut, cut, spin, spin, cut, cut.