Member-only story
Summer is halfway gone; the last summer of my twenties. Next year I’ll be — likely — sitting on the subway car thinking the same thing: another year has slipped by; only I’ll be thirty and the depth of the tragedy of time will be better illuminated by the numbers. I feel so far away from the person I was when I first moved to New York — something I never thought would happen. My younger self truly thought that he was immortal; he really imagined that he would live into the future, that he couldn’t die. But I’ve experienced so many wounds, so many traumas, that that younger, really romantic self, was battered to death. I don’t know how else to describe it. Time is a trauma wound; birth — life — is a trauma wound; tears a hole in time. We’re just an extension of that wound: we’re the blood that pours out. The bruise that forms. The broken bones.
