There are a few things in life I genuinely enjoy. Here are some of them:
1. Interesting discussions with close friends.
2. Reading my favorite authors in silence and semidarkness.
3. A glass of dry white wine and a Red House Painters album playing on vinyl.
4. Empty, snow-covered highways under a pink winter sky.
5. Late-night walks.
I really enjoy walks late at night, when everyone is sleeping. In these moments I am able to pretend that the world has decided to boycott action. No one will rise in the morning to perpetuate the vicious cycle of labor and consumption.
The best time might be in the fall. I like the smell of decaying leaves weaving its way through the crisp air. Sometimes I walk by myself; other times I walk with a friend. If I am alone, I might think about the latest book I am reading, or an album I've had on repeat. When I am with a friend, we might discuss films we enjoy or restaurants we should try. When I am walking, I can clear my head and focus on things that really matter.
My walks usually last 45 minutes or so, and during this time I feel invincible. For a few fleeting minutes of my life, anything is possible. With my legs in constant motion, I picture myself seamlessly beginning my next task after the walk is over. When I was writing my thesis and felt fatigued from generating words, I would head outside for a walk. This energized me and restored my fantasy of limitless potential, which would carry me through the evening.
We can sometimes improve our walks with a shot of espresso or maybe even a cigar. The taste of the coffee or the smell of the cigar smoke provides a tangible sense that pins down the moment. And depending on the choice of food, beverage, or inhalant, each walk takes on its own character.
Emil Cioran used to take walks through the Luxembourg Gardens. When I visited Paris, I made sure to do this. I also recreated a walk through certain streets he would pass through late at night. As I walked, I wondered what he had thought about when he was in motion. Did he think much about writing during his walks, or did he even think at all?
When people pass away, it becomes painfully clear that their thoughts and unpublished words die with them. I felt this feeling yesterday when I found out Howard Zinn had passed away. I felt the same way when I visited Emil Cioran's grave. If I am wrong about the future, maybe I will have the opportunity to ask Cioran what he thought about in the Luxembourg Gardens, or if he even thought at all. I would like to do that someday.
1. Interesting discussions with close friends.
2. Reading my favorite authors in silence and semidarkness.
3. A glass of dry white wine and a Red House Painters album playing on vinyl.
4. Empty, snow-covered highways under a pink winter sky.
5. Late-night walks.
I really enjoy walks late at night, when everyone is sleeping. In these moments I am able to pretend that the world has decided to boycott action. No one will rise in the morning to perpetuate the vicious cycle of labor and consumption.
The best time might be in the fall. I like the smell of decaying leaves weaving its way through the crisp air. Sometimes I walk by myself; other times I walk with a friend. If I am alone, I might think about the latest book I am reading, or an album I've had on repeat. When I am with a friend, we might discuss films we enjoy or restaurants we should try. When I am walking, I can clear my head and focus on things that really matter.
My walks usually last 45 minutes or so, and during this time I feel invincible. For a few fleeting minutes of my life, anything is possible. With my legs in constant motion, I picture myself seamlessly beginning my next task after the walk is over. When I was writing my thesis and felt fatigued from generating words, I would head outside for a walk. This energized me and restored my fantasy of limitless potential, which would carry me through the evening.
We can sometimes improve our walks with a shot of espresso or maybe even a cigar. The taste of the coffee or the smell of the cigar smoke provides a tangible sense that pins down the moment. And depending on the choice of food, beverage, or inhalant, each walk takes on its own character.
Emil Cioran used to take walks through the Luxembourg Gardens. When I visited Paris, I made sure to do this. I also recreated a walk through certain streets he would pass through late at night. As I walked, I wondered what he had thought about when he was in motion. Did he think much about writing during his walks, or did he even think at all?
When people pass away, it becomes painfully clear that their thoughts and unpublished words die with them. I felt this feeling yesterday when I found out Howard Zinn had passed away. I felt the same way when I visited Emil Cioran's grave. If I am wrong about the future, maybe I will have the opportunity to ask Cioran what he thought about in the Luxembourg Gardens, or if he even thought at all. I would like to do that someday.
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