My room is quiet.
You wouldn’t think so, living in the city, but it’s true. With the exception of the occasional rumble of the local train, coursing the rails from Harlem to Downtown Manhattan, every dust particle floating through the air hangs on the absence of sound (can you hear Simon and Garfunkel playing softly in the recesses of your mind right now, because I surely cannot). There are tombs noisier than this.
“Don’t date anyone for at least a year.”
This piece of advice is given to men and women who are recently divorced. I’ll admit that no one said this to me exactly. “Take your time,” they said, “you’ll find someone who adores you. Someone who really loves you. They’re out there, and when you find them, you’ll see the difference between what you had and what you’ll have.”
or The Art of Doing Nothing Ethically
Hey, we’re in this together, right? You and I? Writer and reader? Since you’re reading this exercise in narcissism (I’m clearly no philosopher), I’ll elaborate, and if you make it to the end, I think it will make sense—I think. Maybe it won’t, but I’m going to take you through my stream of thought now, regardless.
We are often bereft of the actuality of things: the real facts, true and tangible, and it is also true that moments occur when we are the gatekeepers of the information that might give someone else insight into the vulnerabilities alive within. I want to speak a little bit to that.