1000 DAYS

 Yesterday I wrote about wanting to get the fuck out of America and then disappeared down a rabbit hole looking for a little essay you wrote once in the café Blue about expatriotism and leaving America and how you'd wanted to leave your entire life.   Back in 2016 you wrote what you thought was eloquently to the café was: Whether or not life is being lived in a meaningful way is difficult to say without defining to whom it is supposed to be meaningful (to yourself or to others or the balance of the two) and what the definition of meaningful is (a consumerist version of meaningful, a spiritualist's version of meaningful, to be famous, to be hated, to be loved, etc.) I choose to interpret meaningful in this open-ended question as whether or not it is meaningful to me and naturally the answer is yes, ("naturally" because if not, what would be the point, living a meaningless life...to have already come to such a conclusion?) But for some reason the question also reminded ...

 So the BOOK is called 1000 DAYS; without any further information. With a thousand days remaining you begin your final assessment of living. It is the make or break part of my life? No, my life will be broken no matter what. In a thousand days I will be what, 60? No. Maybe 61. Near the end of your life. Yes, I know, the lifespan of the average white man living in Europe is probably 20 years longer than that but I have no future plans. I was supposed to be dead long ago. I lasted a bit longer to experience love or what alleges to be love just one more last time before the end of living, parting gift of sorts before sending you packing into the afterlife. Some parting gift. This girl, this woman, seems to be a complicated package of demands, an ego-centric pig with pretty make up and smelling pretty because a bit of perfume can make it seem beautiful but it is all subterfuge just like your fucking relationship based on lies and deception since the beginning. So your life is summarize...