(no subject)
My favorite author, Franz Kafka, once said, "The meaning of life is that it stops." Stops...Halts...Freezes...Concludes...Ends...Cuts off...Ceases...Finishes...Terminates. One day, you're breathing, the next minute you're not. When I die, hopefully many years from now, I want to take my heart with me. It holds something, something that I want to keep. Psychologists say feelings are in our minds, a conscious stream of thoughts. But thoughts are made above my shoulders. And this activity...this awareness...is below them. It's an anxiousness in my chest...a reflex, almost, to a smile from a friend...a hug from my mom...recognition from a professor...or soft words spoken by a lover.