This slow life

The moment that holds time open for you: that gathers up your past and lets you face the future, slowly letting your life take shape. The slow steady arc of your life, held in its course and renewed in the moment – not just by the things you do from day to day, which pull you here and there only to fade back into the day…

Wouldn’t it be a kind of torment otherwise, this slow life? But you know what that’s like. Empty time. As if you’d lived the same life many times over and drained it of meaning. A ghostly life, as in Kafka’s story about Gracchus, the long-dead hunter whose barge was meant to take him to the beyond before it was blown off course, and who now floats aimlessly on the earth’s seas, unable to live or die.

This slow life, stretching time beyond all proportion. A flat horizon. Boredom. Whatever you do, you’ll be just as bored as before. How you resent it. It reaches such a pitch that it seems like time itself is boring, time is boredom and boredom is time, life is nothing but boredom. Boredom fills you so completely that now it’s only a small step to – what? You can almost see it, time itself, which you’ll only ever know as pure boredom… but you can almost see it, a time in which your boredom lifts like a fog, no, in which the hell of boredom has never existed, can’t exist, a time that knows nothing of boredom. You can almost see it: a kind of grace.


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