Life is an accumulation of stars robbed from the sky and left as a pile of energy above your head. Life is a very bright sword of Damocles. Life is an expression of how you have lived under these stars. Death can come before any stars fall, or long after too many stars have fallen. Death can be voluntary, involuntary, or a mix of both. Death is an expression of how you have lived under these stars as much as life is the same expressed. You can live more intensely than a survivor nearing 100 years of breathing. The question of life and its importance does not need the measurement of time. It is weighed in stars.
I closed the door to my apartment before deciding where I fall in this spectrum. I stopped thinking about it. I cannot remember if I was going inside, or downstairs and out onto the street. I cannot remember the sound.
In the future I would find myself in a taxi crossing the East River, writing the thoughts down with shaking graphite. There is life. There is death. There is a third; there is love. It was the pain of love that made me balance time against weight. It was the speed of the taxi that shook my hand.
There is a strong drive in society to believe love does not exist. The drive is fear’s virus and an admission sealed under secrecy in homes of loveless homes. We know love exists because it makes the heaviest stars. We feel love first, or we feel its weightless absence forever. Like life itself, love is not contingent on a measurement of time. Long or instant, love is anything between fast and frozen.