When I was in my teens, I made an appraisal of how comfortable my life could turn out when I became the age I am now. Because of a mechanical failure, the prediction was inexact.
I lay in bed and watched moments break into phenomenal particles of panic and could actually see the divine crack of God’s ass as he completely turned his back on me.
Stressful jobs, loveless marriages, bad food-most people kill themselves slowly every day.
If I want to build wealth to transfer to the next generation, I can let it grow on a tax-free basis.
As the components of your life are stripped away, after all the ambitions and hopes vaporize, you reach a self-reflective starkness – the repetitious plucking of a single overwound string.
Is it so wrong to just live life and enjoy it? Between fun and function, why must we choose the latter?
Although I didn’t write myself off as a complete failure, all illusion and romance was gone. I was no longer able to inflate myself; I had disappointed my own expectations and was genuinely worried about dying in the streets.
The masses-I love em-they rush for red lights, risking everything to capture a few seconds, only to get home and waste their lives.
Perhaps the price of comfort is that life passes more rapidly. But for anyone who has lived in uneasiness, even for a short, memorable duration, it’s a trade-off that will gladly be made.
In the dark jaws, where all things tumble, where societies crumble and old men stumble, love is the air we breathe, the earth we walk on, the economy we function in. It’s not a passion or a fixation or a desire or a guilt. Love should have been a conduct, a process of life, an axiom, a grandeur we evolve... Its connective nature, its transferal powers, make utter sense.
Once, as a teenager, I had believed that people could change themselves. Finally I realized that all one could ever hope was understanding one’s filthy self better.