I remember learning the concept of repressive desublimation. I was 21 years old, maybe, it was the spring semester of my junior year in college. The semester before everything changed I guess. I was sitting in lecture, it was a class on Milton, and I was diligently filling my notebook, copying down almost word for word everything my professor said. I couldn’t bear to miss out on even the smallest piece of knowledge. I remember I stopped writing, though, when she started talking about repressive desublimation, and I just stared at her. There was something about it, about repressive desublimation, that inhered, that spread throughout the marrow. So I used that term, repressive desublimation, in all my writing… including in the naming of my tumblr.
I have no idea what repressive desublimation means anymore. It completely slipped my mind. I tried to look it up on Wikipedia a second ago, but I guess it is too obscure a concept, because I could not find an entry.
Most of the time I miss so much the girl I used to be; I feel sick. I wonder if I will ever again feel like I am something other than an observer of my life—watching, waiting from the outside, through rain-painted windows, for something to change. It has been really odd to live like this, for the past year and a half, completely removed from myself. I think I am foreign to my own body.
