The arrogance of youth is rooted in a blindness towards mortality, just as the jaded cynicism and simmering anger of old age is rooted in mortality’s glaring inescapable spotlights.
Some say the key to independent creative success can be summarized in one of two mantras: Constantly Create Content or Constantly Consume Coffee. I think they’re equally important.
If you were in a desert and had water, but didn’t know and could never know how much water you had until you were out of it, would you run the desert hills and revel in the dunes and bask in the sunshine, or spend your days burrowed in the sand and only come out night?
Isn’t it funny how everything and anything is more interesting when fast-forwarded or reversed or watched in slow motion? I can’t think of any exceptions. That level of interest suggests a powerful desire to view things outside of our own timeframes, an inner desperation to find a different tempo for our lives. Maybe to stretch out the good moments in our lives, or to fast-forward the rough patches we go through.
Nothing corrodes as insidiously as time.
You will die bankrupt if you live a life of sacrifice thinking you’re depositing into some kind of karmic bank. Balance selflessness and selfishness. Always balance.
“I can make money doing anything!” is a vastly different thing than “I’ll do anything to make money.”
Is the suicide of a 65 year old less tragic than that of a 25 year old? If so, you’re implying time is the unit of measurement for life, and the loss of someone with 45 years left is worse than someone with 15. (Figures are for example). But what if the 25 year old is an alcoholic abuser, spending his 45 years hurting others, and the 65 year old is a recently retired union worker who now, finally, has the time to volunteer at eco cleanups and churches and hospitals?
The diner was crowded and noisy and hot, and smelled like burgers and bacon and coffee and spaghetti. Maybe some fish. The customers looked excited and the waitresses looked bored. Big glass windows framed heavy traffic on 2nd Ave., compressing and stretching like a worm. New York in August was a lot like Mexico in August, but without all the sandy beaches and sexy tourists and frosty drinks, and more humidity and sewage and traffic. But it was Thursday evening, so things weren’t all bad. That golden hour between clocking out from work and before the Yankees started playing, and […]
Sometimes I wake in the morning, remembering nothing since the moments before falling into sleep’s abyss, and I think “Oh! That’s what death is like.”