Prologue: Death is a funny concept. The Introvert believes that is a synonym for the word "Fair". Death does not discriminate and when it is time, it will come for you, however much you try to evade it. However, on some occasions, Death is called upon by man himself. Only man has the intelligence to end the inevitable, in all other creatures the instinct of survival is too strong. The Introvert portrays the final sequence of a person, The Lonely Man, in this post and what he thinks in his final moments.
The Lonely Man was seated supinely in his rocking chair. The stygian house had no other dwellers. The silence was deafening, and he could hear the cadence of his heartbeat clearly. The beats were debilitating, each second, and he knew, like everyone else, his time was nearing. He was sixty-five years old now, his body, effete from the mundane ordeal of living was slowly getting cold. In those final moments, he was inundated with a spectrum of thoughts and memories. He still had some time, and that's when he began to indulge in futile nostalgia. His entire life began to flash before his eyes and slowly his mind began to sink into the past.
A younger version of The Lonely Man was lying in bed naked. A beautiful face was resting on his chest, embracing him with fervent ardor. Even today, he remembered her fragrance, it was sweeter than a field of roses. He looked at her and thought she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He kissed her and hugged her carefully, not trying to wake her up. He looked up at the heavens and thanked God for his fortune. Within seconds he was asleep.
He was disturbed by the clamor of a police siren. He was back to reality, and he sensed a caustic itch in his hand. His condition was weak, and he couldn't do anything to allay the pain. So he closed his eyes and tried to access the deepest corners of his mind. He saw the same girl again, dressed in a white shirt and black pants. He loved the way she wore the kohl and how it ameliorated her beautiful eyes. He realized that he still loved her immensely. She walked briskly past him and stopped before another man. She hugged him and kissed him on his cheek. He noticed her smile, filled with joy, just like it was when she was with him. Looking at how happy they were together, he longed for the times when he was too. He looked away from that dreadful sight as pangs of envy filled his heart. He slowly began to walk out of the place, out of the city, and out of her life.
His body felt stiff, he felt like crying, but as always he never knew how to do that. Only if he was a bit younger, he thought to himself, and vaguely had a vision of the day when he was at work. After a few heartbreaks, he gainsaid the existence of love in his life. So he began to love things that genuinely loved him back, like his work. At the age of thirty, he was leading a large conglomerate, had a fat salary, and loved every second of what he did. Everyone was in awe of him, there were a few who tried to get intimate with him too, but for him, his work was his God, and he was impervious to all the lascivious hints of the opposite sex. When he thought of those days, he just smiled, regretting his apathetic behavior toward them. If only he would have given time to those women, maybe his life would have taken a different path. All he wanted was to be eager to come home for that one person, to dream with her, expose his soul to her and entrust her with his life. But, every night from work, when he returned to his house, he wished, it was a home.
It struck three on the wall clock hanging in front of him. Now it was a matter of few hours before he would be free from the clutches of life. Time indeed has divine power, it can blunt the sharp edges of sorrow and cultivate the seeds of happiness. Patience is all one needs, but sadly for the Lonely Man, he never found what he wanted, no matter how much he waited. He had everything one covets, but he was never truly happy. He remembered the night when he finished fifty revolutions around the sun. There was a huge party organized in his honor. Everyone he knew, worked with, or associated with, were present that day. All of them coaxed him to give a speech, say a few words on the journey to fifty. After some resistance, he stepped on the dais and saw the faces of everyone present. That's when he realized, that none of them mattered to him, there was no one he lived for. He couldn't share how happy he was or how sad he was with anyone present there. That hall was as good as empty for him. He didn't know what to speak, cause he knew they wouldn't understand him. Dumbfounded by his empty life, it dawned on him, that he had lived fifty years, alone.
The sun was rising, its rays harbinger of hope and happiness, began to conquer everything in its path. Mothers woke their young ones to greet the new day. Everything had come to life, except The Lonely Man. He lay in his armchair, alone, lifeless and quiescent. A pool of maroon beside his chair, formed by the lacerations on his left wrist. The other handheld a bunch of papers. The Lonely Man had poured his soul into those sheets, they were excerpts from his diary, things he had never told anyone, things that were spoken but never heard. They were moments of his life that were incomplete. Like his life, his mortality was solitary. His presence or absence was impermeable to this world. His cadaver was found by the police after the neighbors complained of a fetidness in the area. No one cried for him, no one who missed him. In the years to come, the neighborhood was petrified of his house, they claimed it was haunted by his spirit, but very few knew, that it was primordially haunted by the most fell demon in this universe. Loneliness.
The Lonely Man was seated supinely in his rocking chair. The stygian house had no other dwellers. The silence was deafening, and he could hear the cadence of his heartbeat clearly. The beats were debilitating, each second, and he knew, like everyone else, his time was nearing. He was sixty-five years old now, his body, effete from the mundane ordeal of living was slowly getting cold. In those final moments, he was inundated with a spectrum of thoughts and memories. He still had some time, and that's when he began to indulge in futile nostalgia. His entire life began to flash before his eyes and slowly his mind began to sink into the past.
A younger version of The Lonely Man was lying in bed naked. A beautiful face was resting on his chest, embracing him with fervent ardor. Even today, he remembered her fragrance, it was sweeter than a field of roses. He looked at her and thought she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He kissed her and hugged her carefully, not trying to wake her up. He looked up at the heavens and thanked God for his fortune. Within seconds he was asleep.
He was disturbed by the clamor of a police siren. He was back to reality, and he sensed a caustic itch in his hand. His condition was weak, and he couldn't do anything to allay the pain. So he closed his eyes and tried to access the deepest corners of his mind. He saw the same girl again, dressed in a white shirt and black pants. He loved the way she wore the kohl and how it ameliorated her beautiful eyes. He realized that he still loved her immensely. She walked briskly past him and stopped before another man. She hugged him and kissed him on his cheek. He noticed her smile, filled with joy, just like it was when she was with him. Looking at how happy they were together, he longed for the times when he was too. He looked away from that dreadful sight as pangs of envy filled his heart. He slowly began to walk out of the place, out of the city, and out of her life.
His body felt stiff, he felt like crying, but as always he never knew how to do that. Only if he was a bit younger, he thought to himself, and vaguely had a vision of the day when he was at work. After a few heartbreaks, he gainsaid the existence of love in his life. So he began to love things that genuinely loved him back, like his work. At the age of thirty, he was leading a large conglomerate, had a fat salary, and loved every second of what he did. Everyone was in awe of him, there were a few who tried to get intimate with him too, but for him, his work was his God, and he was impervious to all the lascivious hints of the opposite sex. When he thought of those days, he just smiled, regretting his apathetic behavior toward them. If only he would have given time to those women, maybe his life would have taken a different path. All he wanted was to be eager to come home for that one person, to dream with her, expose his soul to her and entrust her with his life. But, every night from work, when he returned to his house, he wished, it was a home.
It struck three on the wall clock hanging in front of him. Now it was a matter of few hours before he would be free from the clutches of life. Time indeed has divine power, it can blunt the sharp edges of sorrow and cultivate the seeds of happiness. Patience is all one needs, but sadly for the Lonely Man, he never found what he wanted, no matter how much he waited. He had everything one covets, but he was never truly happy. He remembered the night when he finished fifty revolutions around the sun. There was a huge party organized in his honor. Everyone he knew, worked with, or associated with, were present that day. All of them coaxed him to give a speech, say a few words on the journey to fifty. After some resistance, he stepped on the dais and saw the faces of everyone present. That's when he realized, that none of them mattered to him, there was no one he lived for. He couldn't share how happy he was or how sad he was with anyone present there. That hall was as good as empty for him. He didn't know what to speak, cause he knew they wouldn't understand him. Dumbfounded by his empty life, it dawned on him, that he had lived fifty years, alone.
The sun was rising, its rays harbinger of hope and happiness, began to conquer everything in its path. Mothers woke their young ones to greet the new day. Everything had come to life, except The Lonely Man. He lay in his armchair, alone, lifeless and quiescent. A pool of maroon beside his chair, formed by the lacerations on his left wrist. The other handheld a bunch of papers. The Lonely Man had poured his soul into those sheets, they were excerpts from his diary, things he had never told anyone, things that were spoken but never heard. They were moments of his life that were incomplete. Like his life, his mortality was solitary. His presence or absence was impermeable to this world. His cadaver was found by the police after the neighbors complained of a fetidness in the area. No one cried for him, no one who missed him. In the years to come, the neighborhood was petrified of his house, they claimed it was haunted by his spirit, but very few knew, that it was primordially haunted by the most fell demon in this universe. Loneliness.
Beautiful 👏❤
ReplyDeleteIts so apt... lovely!! Felt better after reading it...
ReplyDelete