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“The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.” ― James Joyce, Ulysses

“The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.” ― James Joyce, Ulysses

When I grow old, I would like to enjoy the more refined pleasantries of life – gardening, cooking, cleaning the quaint two bedroom home as I wait for tea water to boil. Overlooking the sea, or surrounded by a thick collage of nature, I would like to write until the wee hours of the morning, enjoying the civilities of old age as much as I would enjoy practising domestic routines.

I would like to be away from the city by the time I find taking the train a daunting task. I would like to be more receptive to natural beauties as my salt and pepper mane thins in a gradual albeit funny process. Of course, such an ideal could only be accomplished if I squeeze every ounce of my youth to earn, save, afford and eventually live gladly and proudly on pension. So today, I am taking that extra step, that extra minute to realize a future.

Perhaps, one day too, you would be with me in this. We will have friends over for dinner, and everyone will laugh at the domestic prince I’ve become. I would cook the heartiest adobo, and prepare the best roast pork and steamed fish I learned from my father, as in waiting you sip and swirl a glass of wine, looking at pictures, reading the papers, reading my poetry, or reading the romance of such a momentous occasion.

That day would be most remarkable, just you and I, and the people we love the most, the people we laugh with the most. You can surprise them with dessert, and accompany Anna in the garden, cup of coffee in one hand, the bastard of a Marlboro Black in another. Julia would be there. Nicole too. Elisa and John will bring cake, or whatever their whims have compelled them to purchase. Mary will have her books, and stories. And I would play Chopin, my much loved composer, and on repeat the Nocturne I want on my funeral, No.8 – Op.27 No.2 – in D-flat.

There will be the cool provincial breeze, the softness of moonlight, and the gladness of immortal friendship. We only breathe for so long, and make so much of so little, it would be unwise to spend it in troubles, right?

Will you be there, to waste my remaining seconds on simple joys? Will you be there, to get angry at me when I smoke more than my bruised lungs deserve? Will you be there, when the refinement of old age overtakes the youthful, plebeian words of my writing?

Surely, one must expect.