Latest Longreads Articles
Could it be the meaning of life is simply to live it, to accept it, and revel in its ambiguity? Is life an end in itself? If so, is seeking meaning, purpose and direction self defeating?
The kiss was not well-executed. Our foreheads were interlocked, attempting to preclude the act. She was rubbing my temples, my shoulders, relaxing the malaise out of my muscles, working to my bone marrow. Why did I let her touch me, was I aroused by illogic? No. I wanted to be transcendent, cerebral. I wanted to be a poem.