Worn Out Things


All the trees are swaying, now, and the sun sets below the hill. Not far behind chases the eternal night. Leading the chase are the gray clouds of rain, taunting the people below. The wind blows with a mild strength, rustling the leaves. The flowers, yellow, shine as if stars on a green night sky. The road, cemented, filled with asphalt stretches on to the distance. Almost everywhere lays a mirror image of the other side. Tranquillity would be the perfect term for this place, this journey. Cables hover high above as the high voltage wires sway along like branches of trees, vines that lead the way. Yet they will disappear in the distance, as they all wear out.

The weary traveller, with his parka, guitar, backpack and messenger bag walk along the road. Footsteps as if they were drumbeats, body swaying as if a melody to a song. His boots rattled the dust, maracas to the music. His canteen and pan clanked; cymbals. A thick green bonnet covers his head and a fine cotton scarf covers his neck. On his hands are leather driving gloves, and on his back is the brown parka, riddled with patches that cover some up the countless holes that fill it. His jeans are torn and he wears another pair of pants above them to cover as many of the holes as possible. Only his boots seem to have no holes, but they’re pretty close to having some anyway. It won’t be long before all his things wear out.

A dog approaches him and he smiles and sits. Opening a can of sausages, he takes two and gives them to the dog. The dog sits beside him, waiting with him. The skies go dark as the sun finally sets, on its way to brighten up the other half of the world. He removes his things, arranges them, and rests his head on his backpack. Leaving a flashlight on beside him, he sat and thought. Then, pulling out the only picture he had of what resembled other human relationships, he took a look at it and smiled. Finally he shuts his eyes as the dog does the same next to him. He too, was worn out.

They found him there the next day; the dog beside him, dead, and all his things covered in dust, torn and overused. His breath was worn out, and his eyes never opened. He had nothing on him that would identify him; no driver’s license, nothing. The last thing he saw was the rather old and damaged picture of this girl, this young girl who was wearing pink pyjamas standing in front of a brick fireplace. On the lower right of the picture there was a date; 5 years ago. Flipping the picture, on the plain white back of the image-holding plastic, there is a handwritten address, written with a black marker. The location was 45 miles away from his current location. Right below the address, in blue, there is a message. It reads:

“See you soon –– I love you.”

The name that was supposedly inscribed is unreadable.

The address leads them to a house in a quaint little village. It is rather small, the walls are blue, the windowsills are white, and the roof is gray. A little chimney sticks out shyly, only slightly visible. The front door is big, and as they knock, the sound echoes. The house is empty, and desolate. The man is dead. And the picture was worn out to nothing.


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