The Old Man and I

Written by Alexander Green

What does the future hold for me? As I age and wither into the old man I want to be, I hope to have succeeded in many ways.  I’ve always envisioned my future to be one filled with stories and laughter. A man that has spent his life telling others the greatness that he has seen in    the world. Every story that I hope to craft by the time I’m an old man will be derived from the life that I have lived, (not the lives of others, but actually mine); all the most joyous and beautiful moments, and the most sorrowful and debilitating ones too. 

I’ve always had a firm grasp on what a successful life would look like for me. Since the moment my fingers grasped that Magic Tree House book, my path was paved out before me. It’s surreal to find myself living out that dream, seeing the writing I put into the world. It’s also a little terrifying. I like to think that all that I have done will flood into my mind as I sit in my library, surrounded by books, and hopefully loved ones, that lean in to hear Grandpa Green dole out what it means to be a man, or something like that.

  … 

As I sit in my library, enshrined in numerous books, ones penned by authors who I looked up towards, and ones that I have written, my life comes back to me. I crane upwards to them, and towards the books that are placed at the top of the library, signifying a goal I wish to reach. ‘The old withered man, hands calloused from writing for decades, vision all but faded as he proofreads his final book.”

He knows it’s the end.

It’s odd. 

As a writer, the old man has penned dozens of stories about death, this most untimely adversary. Yet, the presence of the reaper is not so daunting. A familiar feeling. One that he has witnessed countless times, both in his stories and his life. 

He should feel angry, shouldn’t he? 

He’s watched as the pale rider stole the lives of friends and family with little hesitation. He bucks in his mind, fighting against this sudden feeling. The walls in his mind rocket up. The legion in his mind is called to defend. Every bell and alarm signals off to fight against this tyrannical feeling. His muscles tense and spasm, his mind reaching for things to hold on to. 

He’s scared. A son without his father. What is there for the old man? He’s lived so long, it feels like there’s little left. His body is slow to respond. His mind is no longer as sharp as it once was. Words don’t have the same meaning anymore. 

Even with his demise looming over him, his being cannot muster the strength quickly enough to retaliate. 

His mind fails. He cannot fight. The walls drop. The stone walls that once kept himself locked away, now wooden and rotted, betray the stalwart man. His legion, nothing more than tired men and women who no longer believe in their city, crumbles away to the unwanted visitor. 

Death pushes inside, walking past the exhausted guards: seeping into every alleyway and sewer in this shattered city. 

Death seeks to envelop him.

The darkness blossoms further. Latching onto grand monuments and structures in this once holy city. Death constricts all he is.’

Oh, how foolish this old man is. He does not see all that he has done. The lives he has changed, and the lives that have changed him. 

It’s not just him in this city. 

‘A beautiful woman in his past, with kind eyes and a kinder heart. Someone who believed in him. Someone who had seen his writing first. Not just someone, but the one. He holds on to that memory so tightly, feeling his imaginary knuckles growing white as he clutches tightly to the memory. ”Oh.”

He is an old man, what use is there in struggling against this plight? Death shall reap the soul of this frail visage. He’s scared. He doesn’t want to forget her. He sees her so clearly, despite his fragmented vision. It’s the only thing that has been clear to him, “why does death want to take her too?” Silence…

He does not.

The old man feels the presence pass, a tremor in his hands, a twinge in his eye, a flutter in his heart.

He heaves one great sigh, realizing it was not threatening, simply an acknowledgment of things to come. 

Well, he should probably get this book published soon. It would seem his time is closer than he thought.

The future means death, an end to me and my stories. As I dance with my future, I tend to grab the hand of death tightly. Forever the partner that I am forced to waltz with, a most practiced and confident one. An unwanted engagement, for there is another I’d wish to give myself to. 

Yet, for death, I am cheating. The stories that I will have written will be remembered, my name kept alive by the characters that I made. I dance with death, but it’s only because I have someone watching over me. Success is this. To have written enough stories that I embed myself in the literature of humanity, a scribe that will be remembered for their creativity and genius, that will be taught to every ravenous mind seeking to elevate themselves’…

That’s a lie. The old man fearing death believes that to be true, but I am him. I know what is real and what is not. His mind has fallen, mine has not.

To create beautiful stories is true, yet he and I both know we do not write for the world. A successful future is to write a book and hand it to my partner and say “Hey, I wrote this. Do you like it?” I know that penning a book for the world is impossible, as much as I’d like to create something for everyone. I know I can’t. I know that I can’t help everyone. I know that someone will hate my writing. I know someone will despise me for what I have written.

That’s good.

That is success. For someone to feel passionate about something I wrote. To revere or disparage.  The old man in that chair has received horrible messages about his work. People wonder why he pursued a certain narrative.. It’s going to hurt. It hurts him. It killed him. Yet, there comes a moment when someone picks up a piece of writing. They read it. They find something in it that gives them support, or a new perspective. In this most precious moment, all of the work that he has done has been made worth it.

Suddenly, he is impassioned to write so fervently that he won’t even notice the horrid messages. When I get to the point where I publish my first book, my hope is that I can help one person. To give someone a story that they can enjoy and relate to. Not to change them, but to show what has worked for a sodden old man. He wasn’t always slow or impatient. He once stood as tall as you. He still believes, even if it is altered. That is success. 

Life is incredibly complicated. Success for humanity is indescribable. In 60 years, the issues of the world will be the same. A new mask may be adorned, but people will always fight for love and safety, that much is true.

I like to think so much will change too. There’s a part of me that sees the success of humanity as a shift away from the arts. When the stories and tales of man are offloaded to AI.

Maybe it isn’t that bleak, but maybe there is some truth to it. What does it mean to create meaningful works of fiction and poetry? That’s depressing, but what if that means harmony for people? What if the focus is shifted towards humans figuring out humans through speech, rather than written words?

I don’t know. I can barely see a day ahead of my own life, let alone humanity in 60 years. So, instead of focusing so much on the actions and outcomes of others, I will focus on me. While I conceded the point about helping the whole world, I would be remiss if I didn’t impact the world in some way. In the future, that old man has sacrificed everything so that others may thrive. Success in the future may mean that he is no longer Alexander Green. The old man was able to help the world in the way I want, but he gave it all up. That is an aspect of success in the future. An old man who has given it all for everyone else.