By Jan M. Smith
What is a man, is he flesh and blood, or is he a weed in the field waiting to be plucked and thrown to the wind?
I say he is but a piece of chafe and not worthy to be plucked. He is a mindless fool in the days of his youth and glory, only interested in what he can conquer and where he can throw his seed. He thumps his chest and climbs the stairs of life, regardless of where they lead him whether to the top of the board room or the to the bedroom of another man's wife. He spends his life building a family that he has no care for, he slings it to the side for the glow of younger women so he can crow from that nest on the 16th floor. All the while his wife and children watch him with hollow eyes, hungry for his attention, for his touch, and he garners strength from this need, it makes him strong.
But, oh too soon, his children no longer care, they no longer hunger for his touch, his skin to them feels cold like a snakes, papery and thin, and their eyes are indifferent as his are pleading and his voice laughs as he talks to them of times that he remembers they shared, which never were. They look at him with sorrow and indifference, eager to get on with their lives, he reaches for them, and only grasps the air, and his back is bent with time, his skin is loose with age. The chest that he thumps is hollow and sunken and as he never had a heart for anyone but himself; his heart is small.
He turns to his wife who waited by his side, and became bitter and sad with time. He made the decision at an old age to rid his conscience of his sins and with this to destroy her life. Her eyes are sad and indirect. They look at nothing. They have lost their glow, their depth. They see a man that gave his body and soul to others and now tells her she was always the "only one he ever loved" and is supposed to think this is a gift. She lay awake at night and wishes that he would die or leave so that she could breathe. Her life is over as she knew it. His eyes that enchanted her disgust her, they are fading and empty, his breath smells of filth, his body is soft and gone to seed. There is no happy. They love each other no more, but they pretend to struggle toward it.
Now he is living his life in the bored room. It is the trophy of his life and it is the one that he deserves. He is an empty, soulless man. Too shallow to be evil. Too thoughtless to be smart. Too selfish to see the hurt, the real hurt he has caused all those around him. He will say, "I am so sensitive, can't you see this", meaning "I am a tittie baby and want someone to feel bad for me because I have fucked up my life". Tough shit.