He’d oxidised beyond repair.
Or at least so he felt. And neither did he want to be saved by some damsel in redress. No. That would be quite wearisome: to recover a semblance of his former glories through a kinda harping on hollow wisdoms.
Or maybe that was a harpy, too.
And maybe this was tragedy, after all; but if it was, it wasn’t a big enough tragedy to make it worth all the theatre that currently played about, nor around, its or-fully staged artificialities.
Yes. He’d fallen in love so badly and so unreasonably and so wrongly and so wrongingly that everything everyone said about him was true – and p’raps more than true.
More than true in the sense that it was no longer a matter of black nor white, nor greys in between: there were no colours left to conjure up potential happinesses. In fact, he’d gone wildly through all the blues and then the greens, and had even hit out wackily at the yellows of future joy and defo inappropriate tomorrows.
And even there, it seemed despair was the only emotion he had any right to.
And so it became the case: he had to settle.
He had to settle for what had been and what would be and what was, and for what wasn’t and for what wouldn’t be; for what had never been possible; for what the universe had only cared to hoax as – surely – a way of coaxing him through the same miseries which others, similarly, had suffered at his hands.
And his hands were now cracked and wrinkled and dry and sore.
And his joints clicked and jumped awkwardly.
And the clumsiness of guilt took over.
And even the machinery of his mind, once so attuned, began to rust away.
And away from the trust which had underpinned his whole life – despite everything others called and challenged and said and pointed a finger at, and chattered and finally gossiped and pettily nattered into that dust which becomes us all (that dust which, soon enough for sure, would be his to own) – a terrible toying resounded in its destruction, disintegration and even active dismantling, as those who truly wished him ill got their weigh.
And that trust which he had striven to maintain throughout his life despite all the things he’d seen and sensed and stuttered and suffered – despite all the falsities of those around him, despite all the lies which never formed quite well enough to allow honest battle to be enjoined – well … that trust which had saved him on so many other occasions … it no longer retained its power to let him hold his head straight and tall and proud.
And that was when he realised that if the only solution they offered out there was some damsel in redress to caress where other wouldn’t, then the very last thing he wanted to save himself with was the pity of any other human.
And that was the truth.