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Bullion Grey
Imaginateur


...Rote

He sat, typing as fast as two thumbs and two index fingers can.
Listening to Keith Jarred, on cassette, he wondered about life and if he himself should go on living. He has already tried to kill himself a while back by pills, injection of insulin and doing it in the country side of a mountain where he wouldn’t be found for a while. It was over looking the city on a sunny afternoon. But why did God let him live? It was plenty to kill him, instead it left its mark in the form of a 3 day coma and some minor brain damage, as well has a hefty medical bill.

Here he was deeper in debt, and breathing.

But why did God let him live? For what purpose was it to have this purposeless life to go on living? His heart beating, lungs airing feeling, why?

This question he had no answer for, none but that he was alive and breathing, while listening to piano in the background. He would take out the garbage in the sunlit day, wondering why he was here. He would wander stores, and book shops with an inner disconsolation of ineptitude in life. He traveled to his mothers and sisters home and stayed for a while but it left no answers for him.

Once he lived without any question, just existing because he did. For years that was his cross that no thought of they day or what time it was. Just that he was here in human form, existing like a fly on the wall.

But it wasn’t back then anymore. It was now. Now that he had considered many times why he lived, even in this form? What could have been the purpose for this existence? What could the message be? He had no answers, and if he did he felt it would just lead to more questions, questions that he would again have no answers. He would try to not ask meaning of his life questions, but eventually the twilight of questions would dawn and he would then seem to be lost in the lack of meaning of answerless questions.

He would think as long as he did have his light he should use it for some good. Some cause that he had yet to cast an eye on. Some responsibility entrusted to him of great meaning. What if, he thought, there was none? That his light, was a simple candle and that by itself could only light a small area around himself? That unless with other candles would it never burn brighter that a wax and wick could. If that being the case his cause was for naught. Like the despondent who every night fall into despair when the sun would have its own sinking view of that day that passed, only to leave the inhabitants with darkness. Like a key with no door to open with it or a light for only its purpose was to light for as long as it could the very space the holder of the candle was.

The crescendo of his reasoning had reach its pinnacle and now it was time to stop typing and to go live some where, some how some why. Maybe it would come from the very action of living, or some ironic thing would happen, a miracle or falling star he would catch that would magically hold his heart open to life, and possibility it had for those who at this time had little possibility or hope. Yes he would now wait on God, as it was the only thing he had in his heart that meant something, something true, something worth while something, some thing……