Uncanny Valley

by Anna Wiener

All these past selves, marching around like they knew something; casting aspersions on my all-encompassing tech-centric identity; trying to convince me I had made a mistake. This time, I felt lighter. I reported into work from my childhood bedroom, making myself available between six in the morning and early afternoon. I saw college friends, and didn’t try to recruit anyone. I drank coffee with my mother until the coffee ran out or ran cold; visited my grandparents in apartments that hadn’t changed for decades. I tried to clear out the storage space in the basement, unearthing old bomber jackets with hand-sewn patches, undergraduate writing, a jar of peeled potatoes stockpiled fifteen years prior in preparation for Y2K. Banal activities, but they felt so good. I felt myself returning to myself.