The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

Something like Synecdoce (seen in New York when I was all alone but still in love many hundreds of days ago) and something like Our Town at the end where Emily asks the old man if anyone ever appreciates their life, every little minute of it, while they’re living it, and he says no, the artists and poets, maybe, sometimes, and how we always go to books or movies or plays to try to understand just what it is we are just what it is we’re doing here but we can’t, we can’t ever, we can’t ever get purchase on the thing, perspective, because in order to know what it means to live a life, we have to live the life, the whole life, the whole great expanse of time, and then stand at the edge and feel it all going and be filled with regret and love and happiness and sadness and everything all at once because it will be the last chance for that last chance for anything and the whole great expanse of it, all gone, to be remembered? maybe; no, most of it will be forgotten within a span of years, maybe decades if you’r lucky, a century for the very few, and for some, the outlines of our deeds might stretch longer, but so what, so what –

and thus the greatest work of art at all will be like what happened to Cotard in Synecdoce where the artwork was contemporaneous and concurrent to his entire life, and could only end that way, autumn, then the great fullness of his age, then old age, then — then — then —

I sit here on my couch. Read wikip

Time passes. One day much like the last. Mostly empty. Sometimes busy, filled with someone else’s important thing. I don’t mind that. Happy to help, to borrow someone’s important thing. Even that, though – not that important. Just their jobs. Remedying a little the unfairness of the master servant relationship.

I eat. Not enough green. I quit smoking, then backslide. I talk to my ex-girlfriend, and tell her I love her most days. Television is still here.

But still. Just the days. In and out.

I am deleveraging. Paying it down. Waiting to be happy for that day. Soon? Soon.

My youth, I realized was full of internal magic, full of epic signicance, and me, myself, my own strong protagonist. Now, I sit on the banks of my own life, my feet in the water, my fishing pole untaut and waiting.

The lightness of being, Kundera called it. The absence of great joy or great sorrow. Though, sometimes, in the shower, the feel of the water waking me up all over and in every moment, I feel the great vivid livingness of being, and sense the fact that time is still passing, and everything is quietly changing and endeavoring, mindless but unceasing, to take away everything I have and then everything I am.

The writing cannot capture the feeling, because the writing is later.