ST37 ... A Tale of a Thomas Moore as an Artist and an Olden Man
Across the long bay on a little island another spoke as he.
He left everything. All the people. His family, his friends, all of his loved ones, his dear dog and headed out towards the open skies. He had had enough, all the gossip, the fake love, the burning suicides tugging at his sleeve. The open road had changed. The threat of murder was high. The world had changed. Honour amongst the forsaken was scarce. Even the sky was unclear, clouds suspicious, frequencies rambling everywhere, the constant pounding of drums, ringing in the ears. This wasn't romantic. This was scary. He was old. Things were different. The air was thin, he was ready, he left, closed the door behind, silently, waved goodbye to all he had loved, had known, had lived, and all whom had loved him.
Death was so much closer than before. It always was. In the first evening, adventure began. He wasn't wealthy. He had almost made millions, even billions but now he had nothing. Most of his friends were set in their comforts, security, money came simply for them. Work, pay, work, buy, inheritance or both. They owned a life full of stuff. They were careful not to end up in need, as myself. 'I took chances. Always on the edge of something, big. It was the movement, the challenge, the art of it all that kept me true to the heart.' That was done, now.
He had been an entrepreneur, an artist, a saint, a poet, a bohemian, a partial. The naked night stretched its claws across a tomb that was never his. He escaped everything in tune with his heart. He had felt dishonoured, disrespected, betrayed and shunned, some of that was true but it was all real. He felt the bitter steal cage surrounding, hid it away, but now it was broken, done away with, ripped from his skull.
The bus ride to the last coast, the end of the earth was quiet thru the night. He left any dreams lingering, along the road side, into the blurry past as the evening lights flickered across the landscapes in the distance. Memories were dying and the brisk air was filling the cracks in his mind. One last attempt to set things straight before the structure would crumble, fade, fall off into the darkness of the last night left wavering along the trail.
Time would come and take him away. There was no room waiting for him out there in the streets. Everything was taken. The endless chatter across the lines, the mad hammering of the deranged, it was all there crawling across the avenues of modern times.Â
There was no longing left for the special ones, dreams lived, dreams died. 'Across the skies the dark silence held me warm. I had no lingering taste of love in the stars waiting. The world would continue to roll over upon itself. I was ending. I could feel the deep meaning now shallow and clear.'
In the morning he arrived. Out on the coast. He walked along the sands for awhile and settled his mind in a small adobe in the shelter of the long shore. There was no message to be carried forward. No parables left in the suitcase of his life. His time came and his time went. They say he died there out on the shore line between love and love. They never found a body. They thought it was likely he attempted to swim across the great waters that night; alone as he entered, alone as he left.
He had had enough, the miraculous was still, fading along with the few memories left dying along the coast.
Possibly he moved on to another town where he would write and live under another name for more years. I don't think it mattered all that much to him. He lived a long, sincere, adventurous life and now the day light would move in and blanket another.
Across the long bay on a little island another spoke as he. Some say his double lived out more years than would be remembered as long nights whisked the days away. Some thought that he just needed to end, be new, without the armour of his past, the chains of memory, the rewards of gratitude, the familiar. There were rumours he loved again, died content.
These last words were left there on his kitchen table, on a napkin held down by a simple clay cup holding one wilted red rose with petals fallen all around.
"Life is temporary, uncertain in every respect. Breathe well the awareness you eat. Exercise your body your mind your spirit well and work diligently towards your own salvation. Be kind, see simple. Love love."Â thomas moore
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Refreshing. May be before vanishing into a "nowhere" Thomas could share some of those beautiful moments from the past......I'm sure there are many
Hi Patrick I find an interesting contrast between your engaging beautiful smiles and child like wonder of life on another adventure exploring and....... the somber life memorial feel of your writing in between. Thanks for sharing the journey to lands I will never get to see or know.