Goulven Derrien, Untitled, 2024
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I was born on the last day of summer, the cusp of astrological signs Virgo and Libra. Both archetypes resonate: the orderly workhorse and the lazy sensualist. I expected—nothing crazy—just to be lavished with gifts and affection on my birthday. No naked heartthrobs jumping out of cakes or cars wrapped in giant bows, just dozens of calls and handmade cards, esoteric books, healing crystals, perhaps a low-glycemic cake and bottle of natural wine.
None of that happened. Realistically, I only expected the people I text on their birthdays to text me on mine. Some of them did! But a lot of them didn’t, and it made me wonder a bunch of things like, did I do something wrong? Is everyone okay? Do I understand the nature of friendship? Lately I find myself frequently disoriented, like I no longer understand the basic rules of engagement in human affairs. I don’t know how to get enough sleep in the time allotted, whack-a-mole the proliferating chores, bills, and emails, obtain basic medical treatment. I obviously don’t know how to get a decent job. Friendship was the final frontier of understanding, and September 21st the single, solitary day I’d not be a servant to boss or household. I wonder if this is how people with incipient dementia or psychosis feel. Do I have dementia of the spirit?