We Spread

The tragedy of life isn't that the end comes. That's the gift. Without an end, there's nothing. There's no meaning. Do you see? A moment isn't a moment. A moment is an eternity. A moment should mean something. It should be everything.

This lie is one about life, that we need more of it, that we need to be more productive, produce more, that it has to be longer, that death is the enemy. It’s not true. Infinity is a breathtaking mystery, or so I used to believe. Now I know it’s not. Infinity is stagnant. It doesn’t expand. It can’t. It’s just immeasurable. It’s not a mystery, it’s simply endless.

I was never inspired by something whole. It was always a fragment, a crumb, a piece of a moment, a half-forgotten impression, one side of a person. Never fully formed because it could only be my view of a thing, not someone else’s.

Maybe if we had all the time in the world, life would start to feel meaningless. Or worse.

But what would the work mean if it was endless? What would a relationship mean if it kept going forever? What would a day be if it didn’t

I wish I had done more. There’s not enough time for me now. I had years and years’ worth of time. It went so fast. It went too fast.

We do not all blend together. We are not ruined, helpless, a burden. We are not the elderly. We are not old people. Now, still, we're unique. Distinct. Regardless of what we've produced or what happen to our bodies. We each have our own memories and experiences, even if they've been lost and forgotten. They, we, all of us can finally rest.

His skin is wrinkled and droops. An old man's imperfect torso. Years on display in that sagging skin: quiet moments of pride and shame, excitement and fear, joy, guilt, desire, happiness, loss, love. I can see it. All of it and more. Just like my own.

I'm starting to lose the intimacy of my memories. Most of my memories have stopped feeling like my own. I don't believe them wholeheartedly the way I used to, and they don't carry the same heft they once did.

The love I'd felt for him faded and detached. There was nothing to hold it in place. No more mystery. Nothing to learn. Wonder was replaced with awareness. By the end, it wasn't just familiarity. I had a total and complete understanding of him.

I wish I had done more. There's not enough time for me now. I had years and years' worth of time. It went so fast. It went too fast.

I end up in the common room, the early-morning light, almost blue in color, not full sun yet. This has always been my favorite time of day because it doesn't last. I would go to the park just for this magical hour. It's so easy to miss. Everyone takes it for granted every single day they wake up. It's only a moment. It's magical, it's beautiful.

I'm obsessed with taking care of you, Penny. And your nails don't stop growing.

I suppose living as we do, it makes the current moment the most important. Each one, until the next.

I think he and I are very different. I don't understand the world the way he does, and I really like that.

I'm not left with anger or resentment or pity. It's an anticlimax-a mourning for my own naive belief.

I think about what more time would actually mean. For me, Pete, Ruth, Hilbert. More sitting around. More eating. More sleeping. I would get to paint more. But what would the work mean if it was endless? What would a relationship mean if it kept going forever? What would a day be if it didn’t end?

The tragedy of life isn’t that the end comes. That’s the gift. Without an end, there’s nothing. There’s no meaning. Do you see? A moment isn’t a moment. A moment is an eternity. A moment should mean something. It should be everything.