It’s cruel that life is so short. One hundred years is hardly enough time to make a dent on our interests. I know that there are some people who think that life is too long and depressing and awful, but I have always loved living.
If you’ve read more than one of these blog posts you’ll know my deep and true desire to be a hay farmer in rural Romania. (Don’t worry, there’s more on that coming up!) Oh there would be nothing more joyful than baling hay all day and thinking of nothing but hay. Hay, hay, hay! It’s not to be, but one of these summers I swear to you I’ll vanish into the night, turn up in Brașov, and then make my way to the countryside to train as a hay farmer. I’m quite serious.
I was immediately obsessed and spent the rest of the day in a delirium. I too want to be a monk, alone, quiet, doing nothing but building coffins. I dream of becoming a hay farmer in Romania, doing the backbreaking work and worrying only about hay, thinking only of hay. And I would be ecstatic to be an outcast on a deserted island, foraging for food, building shelters out of palm fronds and bamboo poles. It would all suit me down to the ground.