Pauses

An article in the New Yorker made me miss Paris. An evening stroll to the store made me miss all other evening strolls to the store when my head was full of ideas. I think in spasms and like all spasms they are barely controllable. If I am lucky, I get something from these mental explosions, I save it for later when it is all over and all is quiet again. But I am rarely lucky and what could have been the most exciting thing in the world yesterday becomes today as meaningless as anything else. And then there is nothing to do but wait: read halfheartedly, speak halfheartedly, and think halfheartedly. This is the time of looking backward. Reminiscing, trying to forget, trying to silence the voices, or voicing over what is normally kept in silence. This is also the time of looking forward; but without hope and right onto death. There is nothing that can be done to vindicate one's longevity, but even more so there is nothing that would justify one's premature departure.  It is a conspicuous waste of time which cannot be simply remedied by a willful act.