A few hours ago as sunset deepened, I read this in the nearby forest, the one Max would have liked:
Only the living seem incoherent. Death closes the series of events that constitutes their lives. So we resign ourselves to finding a meaning for them. To refuse them this would amount to accepting that a life, and thus life itself, is absurd.
This is an excerpt from Suicide, by Edouard Levé. He delivered this to his publisher and killed himself the next day.
In the forest, it is quiet. Earlier a Russian couple walked by, older than me but healthful, carrying blue fuzzy weights. Clouds have moved in and complexified the sky and all the green is in shadow, the sound of water steady and smoothing.
Leaving, the path is dust, the suburban street is empty and warm. Magenta folds under the clouds and the sky is big and eternal. The Texas sky is bigger, not in a patronizing Texas sense but in vastness, a quality of size beyond space and time. I realize Texans must be loud to be sure of their reality under such a sky. The sky cannot possibly notice people.
The days have been good. I have had good conversations with friends today, woken up at a decent time, retrieved precious items mistakenly discarded and kept a cool head. Now I feel doubt, the world shifting like it did sometime in the fifth grade when the shadows shifted under the trees and cartoons were not quite as bright. I don’t know what it is. There is nothing to fear or question but there is the knowledge of August, school starting, an end of free days.
Sunset is beautiful here as everywhere, and it will always be morning for somebody.