Eulogy of Self
An Estimation of Self Worth
His premature death is a long time overdue. Estimating the impact of his days on this planet was a simple task, a quick one. “What difference was there?” he says quietly. The droll, dark days of his existence were just a reminder of his bitterness toward life. Waiting for the sting, he trods on. Day to day, year to year. Waiting for that moment when he shall hear his last breath. To go by his own hand was just a fleeting breeze in eternity.
Friends were few in his mind, merely acquaintances of employment. To trespass through his dome was unheard of; it was his area of comfort. No one dared cross the line, save for the occasional family member. But the epoch spent in his space even by them was unbearable, and soon the demons would cause him to lash out, retiring back to his own reclusive solitude.
But from among his chattering progeny comes thought provoking enlightenment. The humorous mutterings of carefree joy amidst his darkening gloom brings a glow of contentment over him. He rises and joins the merriment, losing his despair in brief fleeting moments of tumbling frivolous play. From ground level he sees her, the object of all meaning. The deep loving thoughts spiraling inside were causing him to rethink the demons, casting them away for this brief moment.
The results of their union have gone forth and caused great changes in the world around him. “Without delinquency or abuse,” he thinks quietly. “I am pleased with what we have created.” She senses the eye pressure and turns and smiles. “I am blessed,” he thinks again. “Never would a woman half as pure as she, hold my hand as she has, undaunted by the demons of my reclusive nature.”
A premature end to this tormented spirit would serve no purpose, but to cause calamity to befall his progeny. The loss of such a man could cause many less homeless persons to eat, or a hundred less fish to be caught, fewer smiles to be shared. The course of history alone would not be the same, for the spirit of his progeny would be vanquished, and they may not succeed. “In a hundred years from now, who’ll know the difference?” He says. The answer lies in the many unborn babes, unsolved problems, and unwritten stories. The difference just one man can make cannot be distinguished, until he is gone.
©Del Banks 2002/2013