The Immortal Ox Rider - part 1
The old man was once a young man.
Before he was a young man, he had been a child. As a child, he had been sad. Then, as a young man, he found some happiness. So, as an old man, he thought it was time to be sad again.
The idea of linear progression was an alien one to him. He only understood the cyclic nature of the seasons, of the days, of the flowering plants. It comes, it grows, it goes. It comes back, it grows back, it goes back. And back again, forever looping in an endless rebirth. It wasn't so much beautiful, as it was correct.
However, when the old man found himself to be very old indeed, his cycle did not return to sadness. As days looped past him, the happiness grew, much like anticipation.
Being an old man, anyone he had met as a young man, much less as a child, was either also old or long dead. More and more of his friends died as the years circled around, the sun and moon making their own rounds dutifully until he was the only one around to watch them. The people by his side kept thinning out, more funerals were held, and now the very old man stood alone with his equally-aging house.
But still, he was happy.
Soon, it would be his turn as well.
His turn to join his friends in their cycle of rebirth. Death was but a point on a wheel, afterall, turning endlessly from birth at 12, death at 6, and every stage betwixt along that circle's circumference.
Oh, how eager he was to join his friends. It was just taking him a little longer, is all. Soon... Soon...
One friend in particular, he missed so dearly. They met when he had been a young man, and that friend had died when he was still in that stage prime, having never lived to be an old man himself. The old man would spend his solitary days wondering what he would like to say to that friend, when they eventually met again in some other life. Thinking about it was exciting, and pleasant, so he wasn't sad.
As his body aged, it often hurt. The little things he had done without thinking for much of his life became increasingly difficult tasks. Often his hands, which had been so dexterous and confident, so practiced in instruments and weaponry alike, would shake and ache now. Most days, he couldn't hold a pencil, and even doors became a challenge.
No matter, just remove the doors.
His legs, too, had been so fleet footed and strong before, and he enjoyed running through flowering fields so much, but now they struggled to bear even his own weight unless assisted with a cane.
No matter, he had a good collection of canes.
His eyes, once bright and cunning, charming and pleasant, grew cloudier now. Wrinkles framed them, and skin drooped enough to almost totally obscure those once-clear windows of his soul.
No matter, he had already seen so much. Really, he was glad to have seen as much as he did.
His mind stayed clear, at least. His memory still vibrant with all those he had known, and all the meals they had shared and hardships shouldered.
Not long now…
The days kept coming around and leaving, the sun rising and falling, the tide pushing and pulling, yet none would take him with them in their retreat.
It had been so long already, the very old man now was very very old and very very eager to go. How long could a human possibly live, after all? Even the oldest of his friends had died shortly after 100.
But the very very VERY old man was by now much older than 200…