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Living happened till it didn’t. There was no choice in it. To say no to a new day would be unthinkable. So each morning you said yes, then stepped into the consequence.
It’s possible, he thought, that the experience of gratitude was itself a luxury, a topless convertible driven through a rainless life.
The unforgivable vanity of fantasizing about one’s own death. As if continuing to live was a given, inertia that needed to be disrupted inorganically.
He kept saying “opportunity cost,” that the opportunity cost of doing nothing in the city was so immense that it felt opulent.
If the mortal sin of the suicide is greed, to hoard stillness and calm for yourself while dispersing your riotous internal pain among all those who survive you, then the mortal sin of the martyr must be pride, the vanity, the hubris to believe not only that your death could mean more than your living, but that your death could mean more than death itself—which, because it is inevitable, means nothing. —from BOOKOFMARTYRS.docx by Cyrus Shams
All of us were dying, I’d remind them. I was just dying faster.
Love was a room that appeared when you stepped into it. Cyrus understood that now, and stepped.
