The wind is blowing furiously tonight, shaking every inch of the forest, knocking my little home with the will to break it; it usually does this time of the year. When I was young my mother used to tell me that angels come to sleep in this part of the world and their snoring causes the wind to go wild. Bless her! She always used to tell me such ridiculous things, and I told the same fantasy stories to my child when I got the chance. My wife used to think they were cute. I guess it was her way of denying that I have become senile. But it’s no harm done because like me I think Ted knew as well they were all comforting lies that a parent prefers to tell than the truth. Or maybe he didn’t know that and still believes in them. I wouldn’t put it past him. Ted or Gator as he is known now wasn’t the brightest of them all. My impatience as an old parent drove him away. Last I heard, he was on a quest to drink at every bar in this country, hopping from one state to another with his guitar and a dirty old bag. What a disappointment he turned out to be or rather what a disappointment I turned out to be for not being able to understand his sentiments. The World is at a loss with people like me in it, but still it is people like me who are left behind to scribble in remorse while the good ones are long gone.
Lying on my bed for most part of the day being taken care of by my nurse I haven’t felt the soothing light and warmth of the sun for a while now. I guess it doesn’t want to see me either. I wouldn’t blame it. I have become useless and meaningless to this world, just another burden waiting to be offloaded from the shoulders of Atlas. If only my dear Patria was still here, she could have salvaged some dignity for my diminishing self. Oh how I miss her: her gentle smile, her laughter, her trapping arguments and illogical anger, I miss her beyond recognition. I wish I would have been a better husband to her while she was alive. I thought I was the only one suffering. Alas! My grievances took her to the grave in the realm of forgotten souls.
We used to sit for hours and watch the birds together. Watch them build their nest, raising their young ones and protecting what was theirs. Orange and grey, red and yellow, blue with hazel smirks, smoky little fat ones, blacks, purple and yellow, the great big brown ones, there are so many kinds of those beautiful flying creatures out there. I do not remember their names; to be honest I have never cared for their names. A robin or an eagle or a nightingale surely don’t call themselves by such names, what brings them up in my memory are their colours and voices. At this age, I cannot see their colours and I cannot hear them singing. What a shame. What wouldn’t I give to see those chirping birds hop up and down my porch as I feed them the last produce of my grain.
The angels have awoken. The wind has gone silent. I can feel an uneasy expectation in the fields. They are bracing themselves for one last gush that would swish them off from the grounds they tie their roots to so firmly. But nature doesn’t seem interested. The fields, the crops, the trees are not important to it although they would like to think so. No, the wind doesn’t blow for them, the wind doesn’t blow for anyone or anything but itself, and in this part of the world it doesn’t care for anyone either. It blows because it must. Just like any other thing in this world, it happens because it must; the cycle of reforming folly goes on and on, not because it is supposed to happen but because it must. The world knows no other way, and its inhabitants know no other way. Intelligent life forms we might be, but we are at a loss if all that must happen do not happen even if we rigorously moan about its happenings.
I have come to my wit’s end, to an uncomfortable silence in my life. There is no point in going on pretending to be alive. It is as they say without purpose and reason that is what my living has become. I have lived a long life of repenting sorrow and momentary bliss, and I think I am entitled to it. Hundred and eleven, that is what my age is and I intend to keep it at that. After such a long time I don’t think it should be called a suicide but a mere necessity. Goodbye, Oh dreary world. May you never echo my sorrows into another soul.