Everything comes at a price! Now I’m as lonely as a stray dog…
This is written by a solitary man in his seventies. I wish to share my tale, hoping it might serve as a warning to others.
I reside in a bustling provincial city, yet surrounded by strangers. The aging walls of my home no longer feel familiar, and the streets I once strode with purpose now seem desolate and cold. No one awaits me, no one inquires after me. Such is the cost of my past…
When I gaze into the mirror, I scarcely recognize myself. My face is gaunt, hair long turned white, shoulders hunched, eyes dulled. Where is the man who once lived recklessly, adored women, reveled in raucous gatherings, and chased grandeur? Where’s that cocksure bon vivant who believed the world lay at his feet? In his place stands a weary, forgotten old man…
**The Sins of Youth**
In my prime, I was a charmer, fortune’s favorite. Beautiful women enthralled me—I wooed them effortlessly, then cast them aside just as swiftly. “You only live once; take everything life offers,” I’d declare. Back then, I thought myself justified.
I had a wife, Eleanor—a kind, patient soul. She endured fifteen years of marriage, though I gave her no peace. Nights vanished in debauchery; I’d stumble home drunk or bring cheap flings to our doorstep. Eleanor stayed silent, enduring, hoping I’d change.
But I refused to relent. I assumed she’d never leave—that she existed to endure. *Where else could she go?* I’d smirk. *I’m charming, lively, flush with cash*. Yet one day, Eleanor issued an ultimatum: reform or lose her. I scoffed, “And where would you go, darling?”
She knew exactly where. One morning, she packed her things, took our children, and vanished to the opposite end of the country. No drama, no tears. Simply gone—forever.
At first, I shrugged it off. I carried on, scarcely thinking of her or the children. I paid child support sporadically; they never reminded me. Once, I sent Christmas gifts as a surprise. Days later, the parcel returned unopened…
I brushed it aside. “They’ll come crawling back,” I muttered. But years passed, and the phone never rang.
**Lonely Age: A Cruel Judgment**
I never pondered old age. In youth, I believed it wouldn’t touch me. Steady work bored me; I preferred revelry. I flitted from job to job, mocking those who saved, built homes, or planned ahead.
Now my “carefree” life has left me with a pittance of a pension, barely covering medicines. A hot meal feels like a distant memory. Some nights, I sleep hungry—with no one to complain to.
Recently, I bumped into an old acquaintance on the high street. He’d aged but looked content—well-kept, assured. He had a family, a home, grown children. He clapped my shoulder and said, “Edward, you were the king of the town… What became of you?”
I had no reply. A lump choked my throat. All that remains are regrets and ghosts. I seek no pity. My fate is my own doing.
While others built families, I drank in pubs with fair-weather mates.
While others saved, I squandered cash on fleeting affairs.
While others planned tomorrows, I chased tonight’s thrills.
Now, when I crave my children’s presence, I dare not call. Perhaps I have grandchildren—yet I’ll die without knowing their faces.
**A Belated Plea to Those Who Can Still Change**
Don’t repeat my errors. Youth isn’t eternal. Family isn’t a given. Cherish those beside you; nurture your bonds.
For one day, you might find yourself in an empty flat where even echoes ignore your “Hello”…
