Death and the Miser

The Friday of all Fridays have always been about juggling expectations against reality. Wanting to step foot into something relevant, something that aches, but in the end it never does, perhaps because life is not always about flipping scripts. Why? In the grand scheme of this perpetual sojourn, the drive of purpose within the zeitgeist is shared within the collective, regardless of what one thinks they deserve, or what the situation at hand calls for. It had just ended, the unhinged transportation woes, that demolished many wallets during the week. Friday should have been different. At noon the eyes split against the sunlit weight, weighing the head down, clocking the shift for domestic life. There goes a little boy that needs a worn man paying him all heed.

The woman demands it, the man fears it.

And not because the responsibility was a horrible affair, far from it. It just consumes a lot of... time. The fear is more about losing what the man does not realise he has already lost. For every Friday that he clamours begging for that call to arms is another Friday clamouring instead for that call to desist fighting against the mundane. The mundanity was always there ready to be served, and he loathed and loathed as his life slowly passes him by, waiting for Godot on the other side who never came. Rainy days and Fridays, at some point the realisation struck that this was the near end of the line. It was all China all the way down, and that satisfied the duo for now as he counts his next steps.

The next day the kingdom "unites" into a show of force. The lingering aroma of another disappointing Friday once again seeps, telling the man to rein down his expectations. But while the world quakes as he lounges on his bed made of a four-seater sofa, another chance passes him by, and maybe by design he will never catch the whiff of purpose that he was always clamouring to obtain. The force gathered at around a hundred thousand strong, perhaps more. And even though the man was not fit for this purpose, it was not his fight to bear, he understood the complexities, politicking aside. A man a few days prior was just assassinated for his own convictions, despite how wrong they may be.

Now the man sits at home, day after the next day, hoping to catch the last whiff. He recalls walking the same path with his duo companions. It was her fight to bear, not his, never his, never does, never will. Ukraine will slava, but this man has none.