I know of a man who sits outside the porch every late afternoon watching life pass him by, building castles in the sky. He sits to enjoy his coffee with his head looking down admiring the ground, as if he longs to be it, under it.
And when the sun is out of sight he gathers himself for a fight, wakes up his soul and reminds it to move on. Some days I see him in the mornings too when the sky has enough blue to blame the sun for the mist in his eyes, he tends to say his voice is sunbaked, not breaking just sunbaked.
This man lives amongst us but instead he isn’t, he is dying. But he can’t go because we told him NOlike we have done before. No! Men don’t express, they repress. No! Men don’t take breaks, just give it a shake. We held his hand and walked him to death then left him to decide which way he should go, the knife, the gun or the pill or what we like to call tragic. He’s been told that one only dies fromcancer and old age. There is no dying from stress, from expectations, from mental illness. For those who die different have failed, he then wonders:
“If Im dying the wrong way probably I never livedright either”
So do we watch him enjoy his coffee every late afternoon until he turns grey? Or do we let him go? Do not tell me you will walk him back to life, enough of your lies!
Just please decide, Will this be his last yes or the next no?