by Arran James
I stare into the eyes of the old man before me. He is glazed blank with dementia. He cannot even feed himself. He make any coherent speech but he keeps blurting out sounds all the same. He lives in conditions he has long sinced ceased being able to control. He shows vague signs of remembering sexuality and work, but these too fail him. This…this is the perfected image of Man?
There are things more horrific than death. And that this man, that he remains singularly this man and no other, proves that there is something fundamentally wrong with being a person.
I leave. I meet L. I embrace her. We laugh together in the sun and drink coffee. We discuss our future. We know what we are but we have not yet met it. We can’t. It is impossible to renounce life in practice.