Almost Methuselah

The frustration had vanished, leaving only a tightness in the groin and a gnawing sense of emptiness. That was OK, the type of emptiness experienced was Zen-like and comforting. The tight groin was down to recent exercise after a long lay-off. The day greyed-over in slow minutes, as I sat watching the trees encroach on my view of the sky. It was a very average, but very bounteous day. That old paradox. The last few weeks had been a ride I didn’t expect to endure, but had been incubating in my guts. I still had disturbed sleep and headaches. I must remember to eat regularly. I had killed off one part of my internal turmoil, for another to appear and mutate into a mental homunculus that stalked my silences and threatened to suck up any positivity I had left. But, the frustration had vanished. I thanked all gods and none and returned to my viewing of the moribund day. The whole flat was mute; no soothing, or jarring radio-wave soundtrack, only a hint of nearby traffic. I’d dispensed with the novel I’d been reading, when it revealed itself as a literary exercise, rather than a narrative I could engage with. I was alone with my body, my thoughts, my mocking creative flow which had reduced to a mere trickle of petty sentences and end-of-the-pier one-liners not even worthy of that honour. My muscles ached as I squirmed in my chair; all attempts at stilling the pain medically had given me a pain killer semi-dependency (not even gratifying enough to be as important as an addiction). In short, I was utterly fed up with myself, in that most apathetic of senses. I’d realised it was a physical entropy and self diagnosed it with no hesitation. Even talking to myself about it was as boring as living it. My own worst enemy as people often, unhelpfully, remarked. The doorbell sounded and I raised myself up from the overly-comfortable chair and walked as jauntily as I could to the door. A visitor, ye gods! The first one for over a week. Meals on wheels notwithstanding. When one is over 70 and in the cardiac capital of the country, one is fortunate for the day itself. I swiftly unlocked the door to face two youths with earnest grins and scrubbed-clean complexions. Mormons with name badges. I couldn’t help but let the door swing shut with nary a grunt, more of a resigned sigh. One can’t discuss theology with that lot, so sure are they of their manifest destiny. I was back to my silence. My Zen, my religion, my lot. The chair, with its high sides and down-filled cushioning clung to my weak body and just about hugged me to itself. Another long day ahead. Midday seemed days ago. 1425pm. A long way to…

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