by practicalspactical

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