He walked down the canal and embroiled himself further in the morning midst.
His thoughts were with him, his father. There. He spoke:
It is all still open in your path, my son. There’s still time to walk back and build brand new beautiful bridges. Adventurous gothic bridges. To be reborn, and to live the life you once were want to live. I’m your father, listen to me son. You’re my only child.
He walked further on, still stumbling down deep into a midst of sorrow. His slippery shape but a vague feline figure in the shady darkness of the cool, crisp, morning dawn.
There’s no turning back – the old man grumbled. Besides, she’s dead, she’s dead, he muttered. There’s no bringing her back from the dead, there’s no bringing her back from the dead – why should I worry – he complained. Why, father, why?
Tell me, he asked, where did it all go wrong? Where had he failed? Oh mother, now I’m about to die, too. The agonizing death I’ve so long wished for, mother. It’s been years of nightmare an now it will be over; I’m as old as a man who gazes at his lonesome pathetic past deeds; as old as an old terrified man recollecting pieces, small bits of an old man’s shattered, broken, swamped, destroyed illusions.
It all has been said and done more than enough, and a thousand times before in a better, more refined, subtle way. He said.
Son. There is still time. You can still turn back. There’s still a future where you can be born again. A bright future; a future painted in flaming vibrant colours and virulent brand new emotions. There’s a fresh, blazing, rapid, violent – vivid life to be lived.
You must believe your mother. She knows best. She’s always known best. Oh my love. Breath of my breath. Flesh of my flesh. You must believe your mother. She’s always known best.
Who was it for you when you were young and meek? Who was it when you had the plague bursting through your chest? Who was the one by your side when your maths failed you and you couldn’t comply? Hear your mother. She’s with you and nothing matters but my love for you – my son. I’m your mother.
It is over, though, the old man whispered.
Life is over. I welcome oblivion, he shouted.
I welcome thee, my fair lonesome Madam – he cried.
Nay, I cherish my own annihilation, I say.
At least, he grumbled, at least, my rotten corpse will be of some good; at least, I say, the crows, at least.
At least the crows will have themselves a banquet to feast upon.
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