This is my psychiatrist's couch. Take from it what you will.
But do leave a note.
I still am a late middle aged former government worker marking time until the cliff.
Short Fiction, Doggerel and Insensitive Opinion are spoken here.
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Tuesday, June 5, 2018
Last Days (Blogophilia 14.11)
The late afternoon storm clouds his vision. Or is it the tears? Rainbow letters scatter in the fun-house mirror. June is for summer and fun, not gloom and mourning. A suitcase of memories overwhelm him as he turns into the parking lot. Tagging along with Mom and Dad on shopping trips. For some reason, the memory of going next door and adopting the cats floats up. Dad later ran over the one he picked out, but the other one lived he was old. He’s never forgotten that. But in the end, it doesn’t matter.
Waiting for the store to open, it occurs to him. These are the last days of childhood. Whether he wants to or not, it’s time to grow up. Liquidation signs are a wiggle jig to a bass, drawing him closer and closer to the hook, to his doom. A couple of shrink-wrapped games for future trades, he told himself, to turn for a profit. It is a lie, of course. He only buys, never sells. The collection fills two rooms upstairs and is growing. He might have to get a storage bin before too long.
He needs to slow down. In his mind, he pictures him to far ahead. Eh, screw it. People have no vision. This stuff will make me rich someday.
The second hand unwinds in his mind. The large space is almost empty, even some of the shelves are gone, only cables and learning stuff left. With a sigh, he grabs the fiberglass giraffe and leaves.