Living in Time

I’m obsessed with time because we’re in it and there’s no way to get out. At least until the end. But we don’t know what happens then. Or after. And maybe never will.

Most unendurable: Sunday, February, August, 2-5 pm each afternoon.

There was a time in Paris when I loved February. My friend and I were living in an apartment on Île de la Cité. All we did was drink, read, and go to cemeteries. I licked Susan Sontag’s grave. I’m not sure why. She once said, “I love being alive. I wake up every morning very grateful that I’m alive. It’s more than enjoyment. I’m very happy to be alive.”

But you can’t live in Paris forever. And if you could, you’d probably want to leave for New York. Wherever you’re buried, you’re dead. You don’t get to come back and read a book. (Or lick a grave.)

What happens on Sundays? I think we sink. I don’t know why. Sundays are so thin. You can almost always see the past.

And August is too handsome. It reminds you that everything will end regardless of what it is. But who can forget about summer once they’ve had it? Not me. I just want it again. I want to put my mouth on it like it’s a piece of fruit.

The afternoon is harder because it happens every day. The illusion that the future continues to be possible is over. That ends somewhere around noon. Or just before it. And you can’t drink until 5. At least not without hating yourself. The evening could mean anything. Sex. Steak. A little fear. But somehow I forget that. And between 2 and 5 I’m ready to take a pill. Or an entire bottle.

If you needed a trigger warning, this is it. Life is pain. Money makes it easier, I bet. But you still have to live in time. Nobody gets out of that. Here is a blurry photograph taken in Paris, on Sunday, February 3rd. The year was 2013. My phone says the photo was taken at 3:13 pm. But I don’t remember despair. I only remember happiness.