Member-only story
I wonder at what point I will be too old to fall in love; when it will be embarrassing and inappropriate. Perhaps that time is now — perhaps 30 is too old. Perhaps have I should settle down into a life of sublime repetition — perhaps I should get married (not for anything particular reason, except to accept that at some point, life slows down).
Literature is my life; I live my life by writing it.
If you don’t die — you get old. It’s very simple.
Paints lose their vivid colors; emotions lose their oceanic shock.
Sex is easy in the city. So easy, in fact, that pretty quickly, you have sex just because you can and not because you want to. And once that’s happened, or happening, you stop forming meaningful bonds. Sex becomes mutual masturbation; a kind of sexual gymnastics. Rote. Routine.
What happens is that love becomes decoupled from eternity. We forget that love a transcendental bond.
Love is not a transaction because it cannot be.
