The rusty bronze door handle is lose. The door is locked. The maroon colour door has such antique sense. He likes the feel of it, the hard, hollow and soft feelin when he knocks. The silence is uncomfortable behind the door. Something is wrong. The pushing was not difficult and in minutes the door is down. He calls his name. The kitchen is silent. The sofa is empty. The toilet has no one. Alas, there he is! So peaceful, flat on the white mattress. He is sleeping like a baby. Gently and peacefully still, so effortless. The slightly opened mouth, he feels no regrets, no pain. The hang up on the phone, he must know his time is coming. How does it feel? Is it painful? To slowly seize the air in the lungs? Or numb? Did he leave not even knowing his departure and sink into his dream? You never know the day will come. Everyday, every morning you say hi, he’s there and you could feel it. You think he will always be there, there’s always time you and him together. Everyday the silent presence, but all of sudden it’s vapourised into thin air. It’s gone. He could no longer feel him. There is no warning, so sudden, and he’s gone. Though the hinting , he eventually forgets and it feels the same, he couldn’t imagine it. He’s here and then he’s gone. Screw the estate,house, property or the 4 million, he’s gone! Don’t they feel the same? From the same blood, brother and sister, not a caring word about him, only legal terms, will, by law, rights, etc out of their slithering tongues. It is great he’s gone, not know what they say after he has passed. It’s better that way, it’s better that way for him... not to see them fighting over his remains. No, i don’t care, i don’t care how much he gives me i know being there is enough for him. Oh did he really leave in peace and have not a single thought about his quarreling children? Did his last thought sails to china and the house he grew up in? Perhaps memories we don’t share? That subtly opened lips that seems like a smile—its all the happiness he sees in the white flashes.
how can these employees even keep up with their job, dealing with it all the time, their profession, how depressing oh how i pity them. a rectangular shape? A something wood, 2000, or a round curved edge.... i don't really care, for god sake, i do not care if the coffin is waterproof, air concealed, if the door's lock is broken, if tomrrow dinner is steak, if ___ ___ won $ ______ in deal or no deal, if our earth revolves around the sun, or if the sun will explode, or the end of the world.... a death certificate, this piece of paper, merely just a label of your once existence on earth and never to be read again. the great things he achieved in life, only i will remember, and silence lost in the wind... in the end, everyone, every olds and youngs are named, on the bare soil hundreds of grey stones lined where beneath the rocks and flowers are all ones whose common in one thing: death. And all human form, skeletal vertebrates, all the same, all the same.... a blessing from the priest will be nice-- $900? no one cares! No one cares! He needs a blessing from someone sincerely, not someone with a title and reciting over the same lines he rope learned over again and again. a priest or a monk, should be volunteering, do it out of good heart/sympathy. Someone who works to be paid is not a monk/priest. What’s the use of claiming territory, this is my land, this is your land, this is mine, and in the end, you claiming a land where to die, all the same, you die and you die, does it matter if you were beauty once young, if you are the president, if you invented the calorimeter, what's the point?
The piece of paper, is written for him, his last words for him. The meaningless address seems unfamiliar in the boldly written letters. But it is written with love.
{this is not edited. It can be seen as a practice in writing modernist story. but really this is written out of my head and i have no intention of crafting and refining it. I wasn't even aware of exploring techniques}
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