As the Background grows lighter, a shade starts to appear; a man can be seen on the small road leading into the color of emptiness. His steps forward are slow and weak; pulling his body in my direction, inch after inch. I am standing here, steadily, without fear, as i am free, I am breathing, I am pain free and not worried, as for whatever it is that may be happening, it is only a matter to my mind.

We have led ourselves ad absurdum, by our own definitions, we are the famous 1000 monkeys with 1000 typewriters, multiplied and to the power of many. We are the only reason, why we are here and everything around us is lost in meaninglessness.

Again I am still standing watching the silhouette of this man moving towards me. The road he is on is seamed with oaks each single one a thousand years older than the one before.

There is fog in the wheat fields next to the road, the moonlight is caressing it, its pale and dead rays of light are too weak to penetrate it. The wheat is moving to a rhythm that can’t be heard, but only felt. They sway in a collective trance, slightly back and forth, tilting their ripe crops. Every night they only wait for to be cut the next morning and so they dance together, to this rhythm. The rhythm of the heartbeat of a by passer.

I can see the face of the man. It looks old. More than old. Worn out, tired, like it has shed more tears in only a fraction of a second than I have in my whole life, there is no more sadness living in the eyes, no more worries about what the time to come may bring, no more fear of losing anything can be seen, because of the memory of having already lost everything is shining through the grey layer over his pupils. Although it is night and there is only the weak light given by the moon, I catch myself searching for reflections in those eyes, only to find that there are none.

I am standing face to face with this man, I can see his breath, the cold is stinging through me, down to my bones. The skin on the old man’s face looks like leather, blotched with bumps and scars, from thousand years of wandering through deserts, crossing mountains and oceans and searching for something he was never to find.

And now he is standing in front of me, face to face, staring at me, ripping my soul into pieces in a wink of his eyes. I know why he came, and he knows that I am aware of the reason of his visit. He wants me to wander with him, to go down that road he came from and if I join him, all eternity will be nothing more than this very dawn, ever and ever again, I will be trapped amongst the oaks and the fog and the wheat dancing to this old rhythm that is than not ever to be heard or felt again, but the wheat will still be swaying just like a memory of a live that has faded into dust.

Am I sad? Am I afraid? I would not say so. Honestly speaking, whether spending eternity in a prison with a somewhat morbid but beautiful scenery or spending a lifetime in this world, chasing for happiness just knowing that it is impossible to catch, prostituting yourself, selling your values and everything else only to make some more money a little faster, the difference is not that big. I look down. I avert my eyes. I see his boots, I see the dust on them, I see the scars and cracks in the dry leather, they have been to every place in this world and have been carrying their master for eons. I lift my eyes to his coat, the same old leather on the outside that is in some indescribable color, that once was black but now has faded into a tone, a pattern of millions of shades between dark and light one could loose hours simply looking at it. Its patina has given this old mantle more life than its bearer. The underlining is of a garment, harsh, rough and short threaded enough to be seen as a parody of live itself. The old man’s hands peer out of the sleeves. The same weathered skin as I saw before in his face. The fingers are long and thin, well proportioned with clean nails standing out only a millimeter over the fingertips. On the left ring finger there is a delicate silver ring, a more than subtle detail, this ring seems to be grown into the flesh of the finger just as if the man would never ever have taken off this ring.

I look up to the man’s face again I admire the weird and abnormal beauty of this face that is all but beautiful but rather fascinating, those eyes that seem to know every single detail and every moment in which a leaf might fall off any tree and that look of total indifference, this look of the complete understanding and comprehension of the full and absolute pain lived and experienced in every corner and every moment of every time that has ever been and is ever to come. And another look is in those eyes, a look of loneliness of solitude and peacefulness. A look that I understand, that I welcome, that I might find when looking in a mirror. I look down to where my left hand is, I look down on my left ring finger, and see the old silver ring I wear every day and never ever take off, and I finally step away from the mirror, turn around and start walking down the road I was always intended to walk.


Posted: October 9th, 2009
Categories: txt.
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