On The Turning Away

Too often had he procrastinated; too often had he shied away from facing the truth. It was about time he confessed what he had done and what he regretted and would regret his entire life.

He was a simple man condemned to be tormented by perpetual sorrow. It was not that he did not try to be happy. He tried in umpteen manners. He had chased away his unseen fears and locked up his reticent being, in an effort to kill the pain and to bring to him better hopes of the life ahead.

There was a time when the rejection to his plea for love brought him down to utter misery.

He felt humiliated every time he called and received no reply.

The cool wind blew across his room and mingled with the smoke he exhaled. The placid silence of the night soothed his loneliness.

Marianne Faithfull in her prime was singing in a sweet melodious voice a weeping song that bore the sound of days long gone; distant moments lost to time.

He had become vain and spiteful. He scribbled in an utterly illegible hand:

“Oh where can I hide the torment of the past?
The melancholy chimes that ring in my head.”

“Lost is the droplet in the sea of forbidden dreams.”

Memoirs of a dying man: Beginnings of Decadence

Watching the old barren tree with its rotting leaves fallen around it, he sat on his old armchair and pondered. There was a time when the tree was green. There was a time when the tree bore vibrant colored flowers and cheerful fruits. There was a time when its branches swayed with the breeze, ushering in pleasant forebodings and better times. There was a time when he was young and full of life. He could run and walk and do innumerable tasks that required beastly strength. He was indeed a beast of a man, tall, gaunt and unafraid. Life had drained away since then. He was no longer the virulent, youthful person that he once was. Age had struck him down with sinister motives. His youth waned and gave way to wrinkles, cataract and diseases faintly known to him before. Tormented by varicose veins, he could barely walk a few steps at a time now. He could no longer work and had to rely on his kith and kin that pitied him and brought in two square meals a day. Restricted to his chair all day long, he had nothing left to do but to think about times gone by, the times that have come and the time that would come by soon. Of course, the times that would come would not be of great promise; because what lies ahead is just death, or days of excruciating pain and humiliation just before death. He often wondered how it would all end. Would it be painful? Would it be like a blissful afternoon sleep? Or would it be violent and incomprehensible? It was beyond his ken to lay down the path ahead. He thought and he thought, only to run in circles that grew wider and wider, leading to no end. Sometimes he resigned and thought about his life this moment. Pathetic, sad, lonely, with most of his near and dear ones already gone, leaving behind just memories and legacies of sorrow and longing, he was leading a life of pain. His hours were spent in fruitless rumination and careless drooling sleep. He wondered if this was what everyone felt like. He tilted his head to his right and looked at the reflection on the window pane. It was a sight not pretty to behold. He suddenly realized the stillness of the air in the room. There was no breeze left to usher in any tidings. He suddenly grew afraid. He was uncertain of what he saw and what would become of him. He looked away from the reflection and stared blankly at the dying tree. Tears trickled down the folds below his eyes. He was not ready yet for it. He would never be ready for it.