To Disappear

During the pandemic, when STOC 2020 was held online,
A PhD student, about my year or maybe a year below,

Approached me on GatherTown for a chat.

We didn’t talk much, as I was socially anxious a while back.

Last year, I saw a paper of his with a note, “In memory of [his name],”

And only then did I realize he had passed away in an accident in 2022.

Sometimes I can't help but wonder, will I also suddenly pass away?

And then, my traces in this world—aside from a few papers no one cares about—will disappear completely.

But do I really care about leaving a trace? It seems like I don't even want to;
I almost wish I could vanish entirely.

Before the day comes when I suddenly pass away, 

I want to erase  all evidence that I ever existed, wipe away my traces,

From this community that I once lived in, anticipating and amazed.

I hope I won’t have to live under the gaze of the others anymore,
No longer forced to conform to the symbolic order of this circle.

“Proving big theorems”

But big is defined by the Other.

To follow the order and the imaginary,

the rest of your life embedded into a reputable institution's name.

Before the day comes when I suddenly pass away

I still want to learn about computability, logic, and the philosophy of mathematics.

But if I do that, I won’t have time to think about my own projects, will I?

The next deadline seems far away,

After reading the reviews from last time, I collapse onto the bed,
And sink into an abyss for a moment.

When I open my sullen eyes again, our time is up.

Before the day comes when I suddenly pass away, I still have so many books to read,
So many places I want to travel.

I hope to become transparent, with no physical form,

So I can wander freely across human borders and see the world.

I don’t want to wind up the clock of life anymore,
I don’t want to pay taxes,
Or save for a 401k.

But can I really turn into a beetle now, and stop going to work?

That little bourgeois version of me pulled me out of the gutter again.

The transparent me wishes to whisper into people’s ears:

“Do you really believe what you're doing right now is meaningful?”

I know you all know these things are meaningless,

Just like these meaningless words I’m writing.

Science, art, literature, politics—
Becoming the king of productivity

or becoming that “real you” who doesn’t even exist—

All of it is just a struggle before the inevitable day

for the last of the fallen leaves.

"You are just bitter at your own incompetence."

The Other will say.

But I simply love this world passionately,

in a slightly different way.

I never really wanted to change the world.

I just want to observe it,

Before it becomes completely rotten in my sight.