I am an old man in my sixties. Not that old, but yeah....
These details are never counted in my memories, when the sea shells are maculated, when the morning wind is tiresome, when the rain is gusty yet lull, and when you are gone. A dream is best if it eludes the pain, as for a man there aren't much options to handle the ball. He will try and then fail, or try and then succeed and then forget. But for a woman, it all ends in one thing, and that is stained patches. Yeah by that way it never ends for her. Opening a bibliography to understand women would be the silliest thing to do in the world because words that cannot fit, cannot withstand and cannot sprout, are the words that matter. But then, words matter a lot. For men, it's mostly unsaid.
For me, a day is when I would again begin the story. Perhaps the morning is bad, maybe the afternoon too, evening is lost and the night, oh yet to come. I will keep scratching the floor like a mad cat, so can that improve my writing by an iota? It will emaciate, just like my health, with every new day helping me to discover one more bone of my skeletal system. I am this complex skeleton, I never knew. Especially when I was young. I thought I was all muscular, just like my masculine smell which she thought was me. And I thought she was madly in love with me. Gosh, was I nuts?
So tonight, I will climb the rooftop, see the moon, well, if I am lucky, and then jump into the flowing river that flows turbulently in the night. The water would be so cold. I would fill my lungs with it and feel just like the river. I would try to flow with it, with its current for the whole night, and wait for the morning. I would hit the bank then and climb out. She will be there. And then she will say, 'Oh you look young, so young!' But I wouldn't smile because then I will be faking it, wasting time actually. Instead, I will tell her how the moon looked when I was at the rooftop.
