Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Confession of a Madman

Dear Lucy,

Walking yesterday this story came to mind. I title it, "Confession of a madman" for lack of a better title.

Allow me a moment to confess my first murder; a trifle you’ll think, as do I.
A lithe youth of maybe 14, all gangly and awkward, with but a fuzz of man-hair about his loins, pregnant with the exuberance of youth and innocence and future.
Racing past me on strong limbs, hardly a breath passing his lips while I rasp, bony and gnarled and gasping out old, withered dreams.

Without a word, without warning, he sped past me with such ferocity as to make me
invisible. A mere pebble to step upon or kick away.

He had to die, that I may live.

What of a young boy? With no wife or children to connect him
inexorably to the earth; all deserving of love’s caress, while I, in my decrepit
body crave on--
It was but a moment out of my day and his to offer himself on the cross of my geriatric redemption!

Oh, the young don’t see death coming. They struggle not with tomorrow, neither pity themselves for today nor detest themselves for yesterday. They are fresh and immediate; all hormones and adrenaline and suppleness and unmarked by time and eternity.
They deserve their fate.
I did him a service really--
Will he have to endure the heartbreak of lost love? Sit helpless as his bones calcify and his mind slips into derangment?
Watch as his loins, once alive and virile, and throbbing with passion, hang limp and
Will he ever have to sup at the table of disillusionment?
I was his savior! Another human, plucked from the arms of desperate, clawing
existence! Hurrah to the murderer! All hail the keeper of egalitarianism!

The mind of a child is soft and open and tender. It is vulnerable and
Yes, yes, they outgrow that you argue! They ripen and mature; full-bloom and ready for great possibilities. Bah. They are arrogant and prideful. Full of themselves. Egocentric and ever whining with nothing to be so upset about. They haven’t lived long enough to be upset!
I see the acrimony in your eyes. You hate me for what I have done and who I am. I am a mirror to your own bitter, hateful soul!
Have you never turned from you television in
disgust? The ads? The programs all focusing on youth? Idolizing it?
Have you never sat in a waiting room full of job prospects to find you are outnumbered by the upstarts? Passed over for promotion because they are all future and excitement and energy and you are spent?
Turn on the radio! It is their music. Go to a movie! All insipid tales of action and future; moving, moving, moving! Never thinking!

It is madness that they, ignorant of the real pleasures of life, are able to enjoy sensory fulfillment while we, who understand and appreciate, are left desolate. The subtle sweetness of fresh lobster; the scintillating scent of a woman deep in the throes of love. The heart-quickening rapture of an aria. They appreciate none of it, while I--I am left only to remember.

It was a bullet to the head. Quick, clean; the slug enters the brain and spins its magic creating chaos where once was order. Stealing from him that which once was mine. Ending utterly, completely--entirely his chances of ever disrespecting an elder again.

He had to die, that I might live.

Makes you wonder what's going on in my head!


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