Tag: mortality

Let life insist on being lived

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

Let life insist on being lived—not out of solidarity, of course, but as a reminder of the youth
you once held dear, like any other souvenir that has temporarily come into your possession,
except, perhaps, for acne or all the juvenile plumage you resented for so long back then
and now quietly pretend it was actually inconsequential—in fact, it never really happened,
you tell yourself—which, even though it’s an acquired habit, has become second nature to you,
just like the fear that one day you will wake up in the middle of the night and simply forget
to be afraid.

Jacques-Louis David: The Death of Seneca. Oil on canvas

An occasional act

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Full of words with an expiration date,
like ‘forever,’ for example, and untimely goodbyes,
the undelivered mail, piling up on the top of the radiator casing in the hallway,
reminds me every time I pass by that I’ve always dreamed
of a slice of blueberry pie with ice cream,
and yet with my face exposed to the late winter sun
and a square of dark chocolate melting on my tongue,
all I can think about is the death of Seneca as told by Tacitus—a cold reminder
that life, at best, is nothing more than an occasional act
of unrequited kindness.

Modern Times film poster

Charlie Chaplin in Metamodern Times

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Perhaps history is impatient and likes the old-fashioned way,
so it would never walk you further than from yours to its own
prematurely announced end, only to, with a slightly ironic smile,
mark its face on the necrology—written by an aspiring visionary
over a lot of coffee and cigarettes—with a casually scribbled
moustache and bowler hat, and yet I can imagine Charlie Chaplin
working feverishly at a click farm.

Just a week

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Time flies when you’re having fun, or so they say,
but to be honest, I can’t really call my life fun-filled,
yet five decades have flown by in the blink of an eye
without me even noticing, and now I’m staring
at a white-bearded face looking back from the mirror
and wondering what was the point in laughing
at that kid who thought fifty years was a long time
when I probably have twenty or thirty more to go
and can’t even imagine making it through a week
of family Christmas gatherings.

Lessons in dying

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He who has learned to die has unlearned slavery
The Good Book. Consolations. 27:29. Made by A. C. Grayling (2016)

I’ve never been fifty before, so this should be interesting,
like the day I finally decided to be happy—as if becoming a merry chap
greeting fellow carousers with a pint in his hand could assuage the guilt
I’d accumulated over the years—by taking dying classes
on a maternity ward.

The humble life of mine

Published on by Maciej ModzelewskiLeave a comment

I’ve come to the conclusion that slowly dying is too demanding a job
to make room for other pointless pursuits, like memorising new words
or ever-so-slightly changing faces, which of course leaves me no choice
but to outsource all the embellishments that are commonly considered
life’s essential ingredients—though it’s not as if I don’t appreciate
an occasional reminder that the regrets we draw from the callow years
are not what stimulate our due desires—and embrace the humble life
of an urban hermit with somewhat perverted interest in death.

As the clock breaks

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A clock can’t outlive time—at best, it can tell
that your autumn holidays are an hour longer
after you’ve decided you’re just an unassuming tourist
wandering the soggy back alleys full of perplexing words
in search of the greatest passage—but as it breaks,
you notice it’s not just its hands that stop.

The warmth of another arm

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My bed is too small even for me, let alone another person—or maybe it’s just my life
that has shrunk somewhere along the way—yet when I wake up in the middle of the night,
I instinctively reach out for the warmth of another arm, knowing we’re not all that different
from mayflies.