Life in the Grave

Me, I like the sun on my face. The unavoidable reminder of life is exactly what I'm looking for, after all. The sun comes and goes. Behind a cloud. Behind the tombs I jog past in the cemetery. But I know it will always come back, except for that singular and quickly approaching time when it won't.

Breathe in, breathe out, in, out. Respiration. Decay. CO2. The ironies of running through a graveyard are multiple and always unsettle me, even if the initial shock has gone. The stark edges of the tombs the size of young trees create a breathtaking landscape of stone, harboring coffins of nutrients. Surrounded by death I am working for life. Striving for life, yes. Not only in times as in years, but also in those timeless moments I so seek with lovers. Thank you, the dead, love of the dead and fear of the dead for providing a framework for life.

The captivating thing about this graveyard is that it´s like a mausoleum without a roof. It has narrow passageways walled in on both sides by ten-foot tall blocks, squished side by side. The ornate ones, elegantly littered with intricate scripture and majestic images, are neither garish nor imposing next to the solemnly plain and humble.

But my breathing has not stopped. Leaping out of a shadowed hall across the wide road, I feel the sun again. The temperature rises noticeably and pleasantly. The shadows are stark and running through ten feet of sun does not provide much time until I am back in the shadows, where it´s cold and comfortable.

This mix is beautiful. Exactly what anyone with a beating heart wants: harmonious habitation in a way that only seems possible for the dead. Only here can you find antiquated elegance of European architecture, side by side with the massively efficient exemplars of modernity. The coalescence is unique, and, like so much beauty, is best manifested by actively sharing appreciation with someone. The stuff of life, if you will.
 
The sun and the drugs made us unbearably light as we walked. Cycling into spring, we feel alive. Eternal moments marveling at the decrepit shells of this once-wealthy city, we are fascinated by the mingling that has resulted from the decay. Large, colorless and uniform buildings cast shadows over their neighbors´ grand balconies and large oak doors. They rest peacefully in their indifferent dependence.

There we were-clinging to life, squeezing all we could out of each other. The day had just begun and, as usual when together, in the best way possible. Some touching, some coffee, a smoke and the sun if it's around. Comfortable. With him, I need not strive or worry about sociability. It is and we are. It is in these fleeting moments of eternity that the contradictions are most palpable and yet most bearable. It is in these moments when I feel I am getting the most out of life for its similarities to how I imagine death--without strife, feeling alone without being alone, an eternity with nothing as far as I am concerned.

My running, much like the tombstones, is not for life, but the imagination thereof. What I actually chase is a version of what the cold corpses in the neighborly containers have long since accomplished on a permanent basis. If I kill myself, it will be out of desire, not out of fear.