The inevitable stillness
The old man was left alone in the dining room long after breakfast. His wheelchair stood in the middle of the floor between the tables, with my back toward me, Turn against the windows. He was not moving. Neither do I.
My world was the youth's. I went to high school and worked in elderly care on weekends. The old one seized me. All they had lived, and as they carried within themselves. It was tumultuous to understand that they had been young with clear eyes and streaming energy in viable bodies, They may have even loved hot, som jag? Burned by longing and visions, secure their strength without understanding that they would be old – even though they were nothing but just that. Nu. Tiden, As they had ruled in, As the queens and kings of the present, would move on, always be new but they would fall out of it. Slowly. The intention was that we young would come. We would boast at the now's arena and for us the time was for us would not abandon us.
The man sitting in the empty dining room on the floor between the tables in his wheelchair, made my heart ache.
The thin arms rested on the armrests and from his shoulders shot the narrow neck forward and carried up his head. In his lean neck there was a deep gorge below the edge of the skull. Darkness in that gorge filled me with great sadness over life. This picture etched itself stuck in me. Every time I turned to it, I felt hopelessness.
Three decades later made cell toxins made me weak and I spent a lot of time completely still and silent. One day when I stared at my walls for a couple of hours I remembered the sad picture, But suddenly understood something important.
The physical powerlessness I was forced into gave me an inner room to stay in, and soon the brain began to amuse me by letting me move free in all my times, in everything I carried, Each, with everyone I like and love and who
preferably along the road, in the particular moments woven to just my life for good and evil. I was given time to melt, tax, Adding RO – and receive. If I had seen myself lie there, bald, quiet and quiet and stare at my walls for hours. Had I cried desperately about everything I seemed to have lost.
But thirty years after the old man sat in his wheelchair I realized that the despair I knew about life was a lack of knowledge of the greatness of life. In the all -all -phases of life.
(He may have smiled in his silence, of genuine joy
((In the unexpected internal freedom- )) carefree about the darkness in its lean neck.) (But such knowledge comes with life.)
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