Sometimes I hate to get up in the morning. Sometimes I really don’t want to meet people. Sometimes, I just want to die.
No really, death fascinates me.
How do bullets kill? What’s it feel like to be in a bomb-blast, a plane-crash, a heart-attack?
I think about these things all the time.
The slightest anomaly in the integrity of a body – a wound – has me going through physiology, trying to figure out what it would take, to make it fatal.
It fascinates me that we can be so fragile (most dead bodies look oddly normal) and yet can survive so much.
But I have never thought that anything is impossible. Ever.
Whether that is because I live in imagination or privilege I don’t know. The earliest memory I have is of Kennedy’s speech.
‘Some men see things as they are and wonder why, I see things that never were and say why not.’
Or something like that, I paraphrase.
It’s never occurred to me that this can’t be done, or that can’t be accomplished.
A long time ago (he says, leaning over his Zimmerframe) I met an old American man on a plane. We talked a long time. He told me about World War II, and about being a grandfather and about making shoes.
He told me that I was lucky I was young and that I should use the time to do absolutely everything I could think of doing, particularly those things I didn’t think I could do. He said that once you started doing something, you see, whether you failed or you succeeded, it was happening.
Reach for the sun, you might get the moon.
Well enough…now if I could just get out of bed.
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