Can you take off a part of your old self the way you would take off a soiled torn garment, discard it in the bin and trash it burn it scattering the ashes in the wind?

Or does it persist in you like an evolutionary remnant, a signpost of where you have been, a vestigial organ which no longer has any discernible function and can only bring disease?

He had a glimpse of the old signpost, an alien being uncoiling within him, a momentary frenzy of that emotion which he thought was dead and buried.

Jealousy. That foe he had never encountered in all its might till it was too late, and had thought was vanquished when he walked away defeated and victorious at the same time.

Awakened by an old familiar phrase and a ring of laughter that, when he would inevitably get Alzheimer’s, would be the only sound remaining able to elicit a flicker of recognition in his yellow eyes.

How on earth? Why on earth?

Before he could pin the foe down in one corner of his head, and slash it to oblivion, it had left.

He waited and waited for it to reappear like you would for a hiccup. To determine whether he needed a glass of cold water or not.

It didn’t reappear.


Soon the garment the new mantras wove shall become skin. The glue hasn’t yet dried. Yet. It shall.

Nothing. No one.

Nothing. No one.

Nothing. No one.

Then he’ll pass even the ultimate test. See her sleep with any man she fancied while he wasn’t in the garden of eden, with not even an iota of destructive emotion. Like watching a game of golf on tv without any favorite stars playing. Background noise.

Repeat after me.

Nothing. No one.