The constant rejection that he felt that he had experienced, that he had come to know for some time, had filed him down into a miniature version of his former adolescent self. The man had been turned into a child. Or so it seemed to him?The transformation leaving his ego cramped within dimensions that left him no room to move within. The single pointedness of his dilemma in finding a good fit simpatico within the world outside had left him a stranger to it. A stranger to any title that he might have formerly felt himself entitled to profess. The conundrum being lost somewhere between the positivity of imagination and external expectations that those enforcing the rigor of the moment would demand. Situations where negotiation ever found him the loser of the exercise and everyone dissatisfied with the transaction.The weak link in his own figuring being the emotion of disappointment. A child indulged beyond all expectations of what was considered commonly everyday. Something that he fought against succumbing to. How thereafter so many decades of inconclusive episodes belying defeat could he see himself in any other manner. Uniqueness beyond boundaries is never tolerated in civil society. All must go through the motions of being led. Independence and eccentricity despised. Perhaps he was small? Perhaps not? The bridge over the moat to his emotions had been drawn up. Stones could be hurled. But it was impossible to judge the effect they were having within? Camaraderie was a distant notion theoretical concept that would never satisfy. The solitude and the ensuing starvation of resources that he had long felt was his due had now evaporated. Gone and seemingly never to return. With in audience there was no reason to perform. Or to impress. It was now a waiting game with no end. No possible conclusion but final dissolution. His self-enfranchisement had taken over. The world could have its way but he would never be part of it. That was the only clarity possible.
Survival involved the denigration of all around his as a routine. Not that he believed his own rhetoric! The horizon about him could only be maintained by matching it in his estimation with his own lack of self-respect.
It was dusk. I seemed now to him that for as long as he dared recall, it had always been dusk? The Sun on the point of leaving him. All possibilities lost in a single moment approaching regret. And he stopping himself short with the knowledge that is inability to accept it would not let him go any further than the moment. The fatal moment. The last breath. Heaving into a sigh. It was not the world who was killing him or expecting him to die. It was himself. All bets were off. Death had come and stone all that away. A complete and total loss for which there could never be a replacement. This life was now just marking time. He wished he could capture the light that he now saw draining away from the Sun’s brilliance prying its way past the blinds to the vase with old dried flowers. An flaming pink urn more like with dry dead ashes. It’s inception into his consciousness at a high point. That time over a quarter of a century long past when all were happy. He was finally to be wed. Now all that remained was the warm reddish glow of something significant forever lost fading upon that pink vase. The stalks of faux foliage shown up for the artifice of of man and not human nature.
The room took on a special emptiness. Lit but an uncanny kind of illumination all too soon to fail. Another last breath in more that two thousand plus of same. Doubled down in so many ways. imagination pointed towards the past and the manifold of so many missed opportunities. Too many for his mind addled by that fear to accept lest it all be swept away! Repossessed as all things in life sooner or later must be.
He could not accept that for his part he had killed them all. His mother and father with his indifference and denial. The many loves that he had started then let trail off unattended by his emotion. Quite a dangerous fellow indeed! He got up to go to the blinds to pull them apart to check the Sun. It seemed even lower now than should have been expected for this time of the transition of afternoon to light. When the light left the room he knew that all he could do was sleep. Too many failures and missed opportunities now acknowledged. They were to much to take when there was no defense. No light to recall with his heart. Or what remained of it? That emotion that had animated his being. Now sinking in the room into a dull glow upon that dried corpse of a Eucalyptus. He had killed them all when out of fear he had only meant to be the sole victim. Only one stalk of the bunch slowly falling into shadow. A strange tragic beauty in the completion of it’s imminent loss. He turned his head to look over his shoulder. Again, and again and again. The shadows arrived and slowly took their place about him. He sat embalmed by the unstirred ether. How futile all these objects about him seemed. Their having a story and a life of their own. But no one save he who could begin to tell it. In that sense they were worthless.
He rose again. Going to the window he opened the blinds to the dull glow robbed of the exhausted orb dissipating about it. A dull uneventful glow about the place illustrating nothing more than the pretense of a just another room. A warehouse of scepters and wands. Mere symbols having no specific use or meaning to him. Just a collection of old useless things past that had long past lost their purpose. They were just there. And then, suddenly they were not.