Desperado
/He asked himself, “Why”?
It had been way too many years—sure, a bit of progress had been made; but, he felt he was lagging in the moral department…
If he could put the need he felt into a photo, he’d imagine a blank sky with a hill in the foreground—a hill populated by one twisted tree and rabid tufts of grass—something that would help him remember/not remember—bring to mind/forget…
His life history was a jumble on the move, only attaining some semblance of trajectory in the last decade.
He was nearly 71 years of age and realized, so clearly, that the learning he’d attained filled, perhaps, a large bucket…
Knowing by inquiry (endless inquiry…) and translation into narrative (writing stories…) were the only talents that could possibly make him a learned (but not a wise) man…
His emotions had their own wisdom and their own insanity…
The Government had given him a “life extension” by granting him a small pension for his time in the Navy and as a compensation for a deadly disease they’d given him (which they’d never admit; but, which they did cure…); yet, during the last three years of that life extension, he’d had to have an artery in his neck repaired and was now taking two nasty drugs to, perhaps, keep him from having another stroke (he’d suffered seven small ones, could still talk and walk {unsteadily}; but, he did have certain neurological issues…).
If he had more money, he’d commission a song—one he could memorize and sing all day long—let it fill him with remembrance and mindfulness…
But…
The mending he was going through (emotional, psychological, and physical) was, strangely, beginning to rip him up.
His world in the past was fairly circumscribed by the mundane materialistic madness called society; yet, there was a pocket of “culture” he’d created that could, sometimes, mesh with certain sets of folks.
What he hoped for (prayed for…) was a rising above the world that most others thought was reality to a World that was Reality.
Was he desperate?
Yes.
To the point of recklessness?
Not since the strokes and his tendency to fall if he turned too swiftly.
Was he prone to depression?
He was mature enough (perhaps, just a certain brand of mental street smarts) that he was certain he had to hang on—push ahead—aim for that World that was True Reality…
Did he have enough time left?
Well…
There are some folks who believe the soul lives forever…
By Alexander Zoltai
From: United States
Website: https://nfaa.wordpress.com/