A Life’s Work

The haze seeped in at the corners of his vision.

The stillness, the darkness-- oh, why couldn't he have it all?

If it consumed him, there would be no room for self-reproach!

He wanted it so, that black quiet.

He wanted the end as he had wanted the beginning.

If he got it all, would the gnawing, searing need that lived just behind his eyes finally simmer to a dull pain rather than a constant burning?

He had always wanted and always taken:

The bright gold, the glaring scars, the loud women, the sharp dagger, the unending pastures, the sweet sugars, the screaming grief, the jovial friends, the deep chasms, the warm bread, the crying pain, the large rooms, the aged wine, the unnerving terror, the strong horse, the soft bed, the awful nightmares...

He wanted it all.

No wonder they always looked on me with disdain, he thought, they were always envious. They were full of greed for what's mine!

What I've been given, what I've taken, what I've needed-- my life's work.

They were the greedy ones, isn't it true?

He needed the end now more than he'd ever needed anything else.

The quiet just might bring answers to such questions.