“In the unconscious, nothing can be brought to an end, nothing is past or forgotten.” — Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams
Petrol Stations. The images of each petrol station at which we stopped along our monumental drive haunt me without end. I am inhabited by inaccessible topoi. These non-places fluoresce in my memory; anonymous, isolated places, impossible to return to, like the foundational bliss of our love. They occur to me in turn, I cycle pathetically through a rotary array of fixations. Places where we would be feeling deflated, hungry, sick, fatigued, casting uneasy glances at the other and our surroundings. Always we were encompassed by deserts, gardens, forests: a host of scenery that would later prove unbearable in its capacity to evoke the accompanying disintegration of our togetherness. These pit-stops on the mad rush forward to our destiny (amor fati: we tried to say yes to everything) form nodes in a vast network structure of memory — forever the preconditions of my ultimate loss.