10 Nov. The dead.

When I meditate I try to shift my attention even more towards the body. When the attention is on the body, I still notice the breath, but it’s easier to avoid controlling it. I let it be. My breath becomes just a breath. Likewise, I try to see thoughts just as thoughts (involuntary reflexes, electric signals travelling between the brain cells) as oppose to my thoughts.

A few days ago, I had to wait until 11 pm to give a medication to my sick son. (Last week, I spent 4 delightful days locked up in the house with two small sick kids. In order to stay sane, I went through 20-30 minutes of meditation, 500 crunches, 200 push-ups, 100 burpees, 50 pages of “Reality Is Not What It Seems” by Carlo Rovelli and 2 episodes of “Stranger Things” each and every single day.) I stumbled upon an Instagram account dedicated to Vladimir Nabokov. And I felt so sad. So damn sad. I remember how much joy reading his books gave me. I viewed some photos of himself as a young man, his parents, his son Dimitri, wife Vera… All gone. All dead. I recalled other writers that were very close to me: Henry Miller, Blaise Cendrars, Charles Bukowski, Jean Genet, L. F. Celine, Gunnar Ekelof, Herman Hesse, Douglas Adams, Raymond Queneau, Sylvia Plath… They feel like old friends. Long lost friends.

Since a very young age, I felt a stronger connection with the dead artists than with living people. Why? Oh please, do tell me what’s new in sports and politics today! I’m dying to know.

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