The beginning and the end. The human urge to defy death, contemplating death. A third-person perspective, seeing others move toward the end.
Image by Silviu on the street from Pixabay
Having been through life, knowing that everyone older than me I will see vanish year by year. Wounds, everlasting ones. The perspective is there, but there is no movement.
Words I could have said before. Ego prevails. The agony of not taking the steps. More time couldn’t have done it still.
The father of my friend died, a good friend of mine. An intellectually related friend, an introverted one. Looking at it, we are not friends, we need each other. Weekly, we met to tell each other what we were doing. No talking in our lives. We both want to listen, but someone has to speak. I didn’t know how to console him. I wanted not to do it at all.
He will see through me. I don’t want to.
I don’t like consoling at all, but that doesn’t mean others don’t want it. Words that are repeated, the same things said. A waste of time.
Egoing to yourself, even when a dear friend is struggling.
Seeing him, it doesn’t look like he slept well. Poor soul. But something shifted. Doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t listen. Eyes look like a felon, shakiness.
Responsibilities showing on his face.
My brother is not feeling well, some expenses to take care of, he vents.
No talk of father, but the things ahead.
He knows. He needs no consoling. He just needs someone to vent to.
Brother, tell me about you. Have you eaten?
I don’t care about others. I care about you.
Cry a bit.
