After a week during which I reached 39.5°C every day, reality started subtly falling apart. Not the kind of falling apart we know from hallucinogenic drugs. Rather than that, rather than the visual reality being deconstructed, the delicate connections between events did. The endless little or enormous narratives I had built my life around, the stories I had told myself about how I became what I am, how my identity manifests itself as a part of a dialectical process, all this took a tiny step back from the front row and became a memory, not entirely disappearing, but not strong enough anymore to justify, to hold, to maintain the structures that are my life.
So I found myself left with the hardships of a sisyphic path, the chosen fatigue of a never ending swimming against the stream, but without the redeeming meaning these used to give my life. On the contrary. I felt embarrassment at the grotesque hybris that had led me to consider my own little insignificant need to express myself important enough to cast aside the needs of those close and dear to me.