It Persists
It persists. The little gnawing sensation. Deep down.
The house is quiet and cold. And his body sinks into the foam mattress leaving its indentation beneath his weight. The single recessed light in the middle of the room glows downward onto his legs covered in black jeans unbuttoned at the waist. He lays on his side with his knees slightly bent creating the letter S on top of the blankets and sheets. His hand rests under his head like a pillow and he stares out to a space in the corner of the room.
The memories knock on the door of his consciousness until he relents and opens it, even though he knows it won’t lead to anything good. They only feed the sensation, but he does it anyways because he never learned to close the door.
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He knows the only way to close the door is to go to sleep, yet he remains awake staring into the far space of the room. He closes his eyes and feels the weight of tiredness push him downward. He floats in it. Warm and sinking, he remembers he’s fully dressed and forces himself back upwards. He is still in the room. It is still silent. The wall is still bare. And the single light still blares down onto him. The air is crisp.
He turns over and sits up and looks at his feet. His black socks are covered in flecks of white dust and dog hair. His black jeans are worn at the knees creating gray spots where his kneecaps are.
It’s always cold. It’s always so damned cold.
When he walks down the hall and to the bathroom he looks at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror and he pauses and runs his hands over the graying stubble of his chin. He hasn’t had a haircut in months and his hair is growing over his ears. It’s thin and straight and hangs limply from his head.
I look tired. Thats what getting old is. Looking more and more tired.
