Thursday, March 03, 2011

the loss and the age of solitude

it was almost midnight. the night so still. so quiescent like death in the air. the hush only broken by the wind. the old man sits in his old man rocking chair with his old man throw over, scratching his old man beard while smoking his old man pipe.

he takes off his old man glasses. his short-sighted eyes fixated into the dark of night. incessantly, as if it was a television screen. gazing curiously at the lights shimmering ahead. almost in a catatonic state he stares in languid. the lights made lucent bokehs with his blurred vision. his old mind plays memories of old. ignited by an overzealous imagination it seemed to play in lights coruscate. every possible color corresponds intimately with the animations living lavish in his head.

the story tells of agony and affliction. a tale of deleterious decision made. haunting like the undead for a lifetime. vision of a lithe formed woman casts itself among the glimmer of illuminated nostalgia. such is she a vivid cognizance of time past. perfect in form, perfect in nature.

he so thought that she was made for him. like how esmeralda was made for quasimodo, like jane for tarzan, like ann darrow for king kong. he was the beast as she was the beauty. they fit like a perfect seam. they spoke of love and affinity for one another everyday. they spoke of growing old, living in the meadows with cats as company. but love decides to interfere in the matters of the heart. love left her heart and never came back. as if love gave her a set of eyes, to look upon the beast that is him. blinding her already given sight. like how swift love came and gone, she left. leaving him like winds done and gone. like river water running it's rapid course towards the sea.

now at his twilight. at his age of solitude. he contemplate withering away at sea. thinking that it would be poetic, as he chuckled at himself. nothing matters now, for love have left the cage that beats his heart. a lifetime does not compare to that moment of bliss. his whirlwind romance. she was his catharsis. his chance of penance. the apogee of his existence.

he could only now reminisce. the gifted mind of his draws her out in his memories. only in the dreams does he relive his happiness. maybe death would be kind to him, he so thought. he stood up, carrying his weary body as he mumbled to himself, "to die, to sleep; to sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come"


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