Dear offliner, the dramatic offliner to the grey disappeared imaginary soul mate on the other end, white lining the irony of my unfinished sensitive message:
Something tragic is about to happen, or maybe it won't. The way my mother described, he might just die. There is this good God's man, who is lying in the government hospital's common ward with a wired liver and failing organs, spitting blood all the time. It sounds extremely melodramatic until I reveal that he is mother's related brother of distant times. But, the rest is perfectly sad, the wired liver, blood vomits, no money and poor connections. Mother's incessant monologue wouldn't have moved me if she hadn't mentioned his desperate bitterness against life. How bitter the good God's man felt towards something that no one could replace for him. No one could live his life for him, it wasn't a full time occupation or a long, tedious cricket match. You simply get no substitute here. He was ready to call quits, that is all he wishes for, in the energy he could summon to speak. Every joke he makes lying on the bed, falls flat on his nose, as if his only entertainment was also the same life's cruel ironies that seem to fatigue him now.
What is tragic is to see the mess you've made of yourself. And, the worst of it is when you can't stop feeling sorry for what you've made and you have to live with it. Live in that bed, motionless, recounting every time someone cheated you, every time you started something new and it failed, flopped, all the internal failures that you lived a thousand times more than you could afford to show. To think you'd live your last few moments so bitter, melts me in agony.
I could live for you, die in stead, or mend every misery, but how am I to make all that bitterness and failure go especially when all you've been is a good God's man?
No comments:
Post a Comment