Dead is DeadPosted: April 23, 2016
Hope is a luxury only afforded to those at ease. Roger had given up ease and hope months ago.
Pancreas. A death sentence sooner rather than later. There would be no appeals. Three months in and he decided to give up treatment. “Dead is dead” his father would say when someone passed. No mourning. Dead is dead.
The temporal nature of life hadn’t ever entered Roger’s mind. He was 48. Young. He would make something of himself. He had plenty of time.
They were the same lies he told himself all his life – he would be someone. Failed venture after failed venture did not dissuade him from his fantasy. He knew it would happen for him “soon, just around the corner….” The books all promised it. “Just believe,” they would say.
Now he realized for the first time he was done. Dead is dead.
His children were grown, out on their own. Occasional cards but no genuine contact. His wife left him a dozen years ago. “I can’t do this any more,” she said. He didn’t even have her address now.
He was alone. Dying alone. Still a nobody, also-ran in life. Dead is dead.
Positive thinking, motivational posters all meaningless now. He would never be anything. He had wasted his life pursuing greatness and had, in the end, become nothing. There were no family, no friends, just a tiny life. One of 7 billion.
His children would come to the funeral, of course, it was an obligation. But that’s it. He had squandered his life selfishly chasing his ego dreams and had ignored the truly important.
We reap what we sow, he said to himself.
Dead is dead.