This is nearly unedited because my friend wandered off in the midst of editing. It’s alright; it’s totally unfit for any other purpose anyways; too long and aimless for an anecdote, too short and aimless for a proper story. So it’s here, on the blog.
Hope you enjoy.
White haired and weathered, he sat there complacently in one of those sofas, humming along mentally as he meticulously opened the book Still Me by Christopher Reeves. Impaled with genodermatosis, amebiases, colerectal cancer, chorioretinal inflammation, and other foul-sounding diseases that he could not pronounce, he sat in the air conditioned library helplessly, ass in the seat, walker dangling pathetically at his side. He slowly brought Still Me to his wrinkles, and made out a few words with extreme difficulty, but doing so successfully gave him extreme pride. This was his life, a loosely wound metronome, producing a faint leathery sound, like tapping a soft sofa.
He pretended to be young by wearing a cloak, a sky blue Hawaiian shirt that seemed to say “I’m happy!” But that couldn’t be further from the truth. If life was the sea, he would be a disregarded plastic toy boat, helplessly and aimlessly moving with the quick paced, foamy currents.
His daughter, in her late 30s, hurried along into the library, her heels clicking noisily along to the couches to pick up the old man as it was on her dutiful schedule to do so. She called out in an obnoxious voice, “Hey!” to the old man, her lips bloodied by lipstick, and skin diseased by powder. Walking in, she disturbed the contemplative atmosphere of the library, cracking a very thin ice of placidity. But she took no regards, continuing, announcing, “What’s the junk, this book Still Me? Yeah, let’s go.” The old man withered. Forcefully, she slammed the book down and pointed to the exit and demanded, “Let’s. Go.” The old man sighed.
The man wanted to make a formidable appeal to her, but it would be futile, causing needless confusion, so he sighed instead, swearing mentally at the wraths of time. Still Me by Christopher Reeves was left on the chair arm as the man ached to stand up to meet his walker, pathetically, in a way that shrieks, “I need help!” But there was no incoming help, as his daughter took no notice, walking out with a flick of her hair, declaring “I’ll be out in the car.”
The man could only see her daughter move so effortlessly in a way that made him so irately jealous. He cringed.
The old man’s face saddened as he could do absolutely nothing but be washed up and down the currents of life. Perhaps it was only fair; he had his fun when he was young, and now his time was over. He trembled to stand up, gripping the walker with a hawkish might, inching forward, fighting hard against the uncooperative knee and enervated thighs.
Looking back at the book, Still Me, he decided to abandon it for it would take an eternity to read it anyways. He trembled as he dragged himself forward, moving out in jerky uncontrolled movements. Alone, no one could help him, failing even to ride the currents. As he walked to the door, he wondered if this was the way things meant to be.
He walked slowly to the car, her daughter waiting impatiently with a false grin thrown carelessly over her face. He sighed; not distressed, but tired. Tired of life. And perhaps, the way to make everyone happy, including himself, was to sink to the bottom of sea.
He was still him.
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Thanks. Hope you enjoyed that.