He’d never been known in life.
Not outside his family, his minuscule circle of friends, his church small group; he wasn’t known beyond these things. And as he’d aged, he’d become even more unknown. Friends died or moved away or faded away. His church group disbanded following the unwanted entrance of dramatics.
Only his family had grown.
Children beget grandchildren who beget great-grandchildren who beget great-great-grandchildren, though he’d never seen the youngest generation. Age and the white blindness that comes in the winter of one’s life had stripped him of sight.
Yes, the years were a beast, a hungry thing, and mankind seemed to be the preferred delicacy to sate its cravings.
As all things, as all people, he’d grown old, and in his age, along with the blindness, he’d lost much and acquired much. Youth had faded along with the arrogant ignorance of Springtime years, while the wisdom and experience of a life of consequence fueled pain replaced it. Strength gave way to frailty. Acute senses gave way to a cloistered hermetic feeling of being trapped in his own body.
He’d aged, gotten old. He’d lost friends and grown a family. He’d done much, but he’d never been famous. Most had never heard of him. Most didn’t know who he was.
And he thought that was a shame.
“It would have been nice to have been known,” he thought while sitting at his desk. Leaning back in his chair he closed his golden eyes, now youthful, now glorious, and relaxed in the warmth of the moment, in the cool of his chair, in the peace of the entirety of everything around him.
He thought on the good.
“Yes, it might have been nice to have been known, to have been lauded while I was there, but…”
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