On the west side trains platform at 42nd street a woman was playing a guitar and singing Time After Time. That’s the sort of thing that can make you pause unexpectedly on a Monday night. I went up outside and watched the lights on Times Square for a few minutes and listened, half-asleep, to the little conversations of passing pedestrians.
Suddenly I am very aware of being in New York and of being me, and of right now, this moment, sitting on a subway train while Manhattan—and an uncountable quantity of oblivious souls—sails by imperceptibly overhead.
Gotta get home and make a few phone calls before it’s too late. I have this phone that I pay all this money to keep operating, yet I seem pathologically unable to regularly have phone conversations with anyone.
I remember a day in Portland walking downtown before going to a swanky kind of pub to have a beer. I can’t clearly remember much about that particular moment other than cobblestones—endless fields of moss-covered cobblestones.
The process of aging is the process of losing or sublimating your fears, slowly but surely, so that you are more and more able to face the wind. Eventually there arrives a day on which all of your fears are gone. On that day there’s nothing left to live for and the wind blows you, now light as a feather, entirely away.