A glimpse at a man in a bed

This is a glimpse at a man in a bed, in a house, in a town, in a country all alone. A continental drift still slipped through the crack in his window and this man could smell summer once a day. In the morning the birds would sing and he would lie, sunken in a heavy magnitude of indifference. And in the winter he would lie, still frozen but with an anxious apathy that burned his core and left him numb. A dead man couldn’t make this much heat; and this man fuelled his bed like a furnace. He was certainly not dead. In fact, no man had ever lived as much as he. No man had ever lived so immediately and imperially in the proverbial ‘Now’. So much so that his mind would often come to a halt. Some time in the midmorning this man would gaze out his window and a bird, usually black, in the tree outside, would catch his mellow eye. And like the last moment of a breath this mellow eye would slow and then turn to thin air. And from air would come a breeze and his brow would guide and glide his gaze along the gentle tree. This would go on for hours but to this man it was all a single moment; a single embrace.

This man sought life. He had one day made a choice: he would become his own master of time. And for that, he needed exactly no one but himself. Or at least he thought; for what he came to know as his “Silver Years”. “Never accelerate the now”, he now knows, “for no known is truly known alone and now we live together.”